


And the Embers Never Fade

by turps



Series: And the Embers Never Fade verse [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Killjoys verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story set in the Killjoys universe. About love, trust, and finding the people you need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Embers Never Fade

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to sperrywink for the fantastic beta. Also to themoononastick, who not only beta read but has been with me every step of the way for this story. ♥

Mikey knows he’s going down, and going down hard.

The front wheel of the bike slices through sand as he fights for control, throwing his weight to the side in a desperate battle to remain upright: but it’s too late. The ground is too unstable, the bank too steep. All Mikey’s thankful for is that he’s left the Dracs behind before spinning out of control. At least this way, if he does go out it’ll be in an explosion and not as some kind of Drac statistic.

Not that Mikey wants to go out at all, and he keeps trying to remain upright, cursing as the bike squeals, smoke pouring from the engine as it tips to one side.

Mikey tries to relax, knowing the impact won’t be pretty.

It isn’t.

~*~*~*~

Bob sees the bike first. Or else, he sees the bike’s parts first. They’re strewn over the sand, metal twisted and glinting under the midday sun. His attention caught, Bob slows and then pulls his Jeep to a stop at the side of the barely there track.

Wary, he takes out his gun. While Bob lives off the grid he knows of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W’s colors, and this bike screams official. Gun raised, Bob steps from hard packed dirt to sand, his feet sinking as he makes for what looks like a bent exhaust. It’s half buried in sand, but on first look seems usable, and Bob can’t help grinning. It’s getting increasingly difficult to score parts and finding something like this is milkshake. All he needs to do is get the bike stowed on his Jeep and get away before the owner comes back. That is, if they’re not dead already.

Bob hopes that they are. He’s got no love for authority, especially not the kind that rules through oppression and fear. It’s why, when he first sees the body thrown some distance from the bike, Bob’s tempted to ignore it. Which would be stupid, and probably result in Bob taking a blast to the back.

Safety released on his gun, Bob approaches the body, and frowns when he gets closer. He’s expecting some S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W drone, but it isn’t at all. Not unless they’ve started to wear leather jackets and actual colors.

Bob circles the body, stepping over patches of blood-stained sand. Then kneels, staring at the yellow crash helmet complete with smiley face, spits out, “Fuck.”

While they run the same circles, Bob’s never met any of the Killjoys, but he knows what they look like. Or else, he’s seen the wanted posters and read their descriptions, including Kobra Kid’s distinctive crash helmet. Which this definitely is.

Hoping that he’s found some kind of copy cat, Bob pulls up the visor and immediately wants to stand and run. Because, despite the blood that’s dried on his face, it’s Kobra Kid for sure, and Bob’s just been landed with a problem he never wanted.

The sensible thing would be to run. Just stand up and go without checking to see if Kobra Kid’s even alive. But Bob can’t do that. While he seeks out solitude and prefers to live off the grid, that doesn’t mean he can ignore someone so obviously injured. Reaching out, he presses his fingers against Kobra Kid’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

There’s one there, faint but steady, and Bob makes a decision. Sliding his arms under Kobra Kid’s body, Bob lifts him up, cradling him against his chest. Which medically is probably a disaster but so’s staying here, when S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W or the dracs could arrive at any time.

“Sorry, kid,” Bob says, thankful for his years of hauling around heavy engines as he manhandles Kobra Kid up the bank and into the back of the Jeep. Kobra Kid doesn’t reply, or make any noise in response, and Bob’s sure he’s going to end up with a corpse on his hands, and probably a price on his head from when the Killjoys inevitably find out. Which fine, what’s one more to add to the collection?

Hand shading his eyes, Bob looks along the track, checking for dust clouds signaling anyone approaching. When he’s sure they’re clear, he leans into his Jeep, looking down at the back seat.

“You’d better keep breathing,” Bob threatens, taking in how Kobra Kid’s pants are shredded and the material blood stained. “I mean it, die in my Jeep and I’ll kill you.”

Another lack of response and Bob straightens, and takes a chain out of the open back of the Jeep. Draping it over his shoulder, he glances in at Kobra Kid. “I’m going to get your bike, I won’t be long.”

It’s not a kindness to Kobra Kid, it’s Bob taking advantage of a situation that that’s to be exploited and he quickly loops the chain around the bike. Running back to his Jeep he attaches the other end of the chain to the hoist and sets it running, wincing at the grind of metal as the bike is hauled close.

Once it’s on the track Bob stops the hoist, the bike pulled up on one wheel. The best thing to do would be to get it hitched up completely, but Bob hasn’t the time, and he takes a moment to gather up scattered and battered parts, his palms burning as he holds sun-hot metal.

When he’s sure he’s found them all, Bob stands still a moment, chest heaving and sweat trickling down his face. Impatiently wiping it away he grabs the water bag from the passenger seat and takes a long drink. Then looks at Kobra Kid, debating if he should try and give him water.

The indecision is frustrating, Bob can repair the most intricate of engines without trouble, but he’s no doctor. Or freedom fighter, and he looks across the desert, locked in an internal debate about what the fuck he’s actually doing.

“You’d better be still alive,” Bob says, turning back to the Jeep. He gets inside and starts the engine, pulling his bandanna up over his mouth as he looks over his shoulder. “I mean it, if I get back and you’re dead I’m throwing you in the nearest gully.”

Kobra Kid says nothing. Bob puts his foot down and goes.

~*~*~*~

“Are you fucking insane?”

To say Patrick’s angry is an understatement. Hat pulled down low and scarf wrapped around his face, his eyes are narrowed and his shoulders tight as he glares at Bob. “Do you know who that is?”

“Of course I know who it is,” Bob snaps, because he’s not stupid and he’s not blind and now he’s got a wanted zone runner potentially dying in the back of his Jeep and Bob knows that it’s all his own fault. “What was I supposed to do, leave him there?”

“That’s exactly what you should have done,” Patrick yells, and then takes a deep breath as he stares into the Jeep. “Is he even alive?”

“He was when I put him there,” Bob says, moving to stand at Patrick’s side. “I couldn’t leave him, Patrick.”

“I know,” Patrick says, and then softer, the anger draining from him in an abrupt rush. “I know, but if he dies on our watch we’re fucked.”

“So we’ll make sure he doesn’t.” The blunt edge of the Jeep side digs into Bob’s stomach as he leans in and rests his hand over Kobra Kid’s chest, relieved when he feels it move. “Help me get him inside.”

Patrick gives Bob an unimpressed look but throws open the Jeep door and gets inside, knee on the seat and leaning into the back. “You’re looking after him. I’m here for tech not bodies.”

“Think about him as some kind of robot,” Bob says and takes hold of Kobra Kid’s upper body, letting Patrick take his feet. “One that needs rebooting.”

“Right,” Patrick says, scorn laced heavily through the response.

Bob doesn’t reply. He’d tried at least.

~*~*~*~

The first thing Mikey’s aware of is he’s lying on something soft.

No, strike that. The first thing he’s aware of is he hurts. Everywhere. From the tips of his toes to the top of his head and he keeps his eyes closed, breathing through the urge to curl up and whimper. Which isn’t going to happen. Even if all Mikey wants is his brother, his friends, _anyone_ that actually knows him, for all he knows he’s lying in some S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W cell, and Killjoys don’t whimper in the face of authority.

They do, however, do so internally as Mikey grits his teeth and forces open his eyes, hating how they feel so gummy, like he’s having to peel them apart. Which is a disgusting thought, and if he had the strength he’d check for goo on his lids, but right now that’s beyond him, and Mikey lies still, moving only his eyes as he looks around.

He’s not in a cell. Not unless S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W have moved into ramshackle, shack chic for their holding facilities. Which Mikey doesn’t think that they have. Especially when he’s lying on a comfortable bed without restraints, and more tellingly, can see a pile of colored clothes on a shelf and a selection of posters tacked to the wall.

Mikey looks at each one of the posters, and then steels himself for actual movement.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Mikey jumps and automatically goes for his gun, biting back a curse at the resulting surge of pain and the realization that under the blanket he’s completely naked. Tense, and preparing himself to attack if needed, he watches as a man walks into the room. It’s immediately apparent he’s not part of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, he’s too human for that, his clothes dirty and worn through and his hair pulled back under a purple bandanna. He’s also carrying a water bag and a battered metal cup hooked over his fingers.

“Move wrong and you’ll bust all your stitches, and you’ve already lost enough blood.”

Mikey pieces together parts of the puzzle, connecting the throbbing in his knees and legs to the remembered feeling of too hot skin pulled tight and secured with black thread. Lifting the blanket, he looks along his body, but can see nothing, just his own chest, white and mottled with bruises, the rest of his body hidden in shadows.

“Your right knee was fucking shredded. I gave up counting how many stitches you’ve got.” The man sits on the side of the bed and pours out a mug of water which he holds to Mikey’s mouth. “Drink.”

Mikey clenches shut his mouth, wary of anyone giving away something as precious as water. For all he knows it’s drugged and this guy’s planning to skin Mikey alive and make himself a zone runner jacket.

“For fuck’s sake.” Water slops over the mug as the guy jerks back his hand and takes a drink of the water. “It’s not poisoned, and if it was you’d have died days ago.”

That he’s been here days isn’t much of a surprise. Mikey’s been injured enough that he recognizes the fuzzy feeling of coming around after the fact. Plus, he feels wrong in a way that goes beyond any immediate pain, his nerves raw and stomach aching from a withdrawal that he knows will only get worse. He looks levelly at the man and demands, “Who are you and where the fuck am I?”

“Bob, and you’re at my place.” Bob holds out the cup again, pressing the rim gently against Mikey’s mouth. “Drink. You’re too dehydrated already.”

This time Mikey does drink, grateful for the tepid water that helps disguise the foul taste in his mouth. When he’s finished he lies still, watching Bob and trying to access his deal. Especially why he’s apparently been taking care of Mikey, because that just doesn’t happen out here, not between strangers.

Despite the scrutiny, Bob moves around easily, putting the water bag on a shelf next to a row of cans of kibble. One of which is open, and Mikey probes at his teeth with his tongue. “You’ve been feeding me. What are you, some kind of Florence Nightingale running the zones?”

“Do I look like a nurse?” Bob asks, indicating his body with a swipe of his hands.

“Depends what kind,” Mikey says. “If you go by history, no, but who the fuck knows what nurses look like now.”

“Well I’m not,” Bob says shortly.

Mikey tries to think of a new angle, but the only thing that could fit is that Bob actually knows who Mikey is, and if that’s the case, it could create a whole set of new problems. “If you’re hoping for a ransom you’re out of luck. I’m not that important.”

Bob snorts, his arms crossed as he turns and looks at Mikey. “Yeah, right. Your group’s tearing up the zones looking for you.”

The last time Mikey saw the others he was burning up rubber on the stolen bike, Gerard hanging out the Trans Am, his smile feral as he fired at the approaching guards. After that they’d torn out of the city together, and momentarily Mikey’s facade wavers as he imagines how frantic the others must be.

He narrows his eyes and glares at Bob. “Take me back to them. Now.”

“No,” Bob says simply, and starts to head out of the room.

Mikey pushes himself upright, feeling light headed and his arms trembling. “Give me my clothes, I’m leaving.”

“You wouldn’t get two steps,” Bob says. There’s a threadbare red blanket hanging up in the doorway, held in place with three nails hammered above the door. Bob pushes the blanket to one side and looks over at Mikey. “We’ll go tonight, when I’ve got some cover.”

“Good enough,” Mikey says, and manages to stay upright until Bob leaves.

~*~*~*~

Frank throws himself to the side, the can barely missing his head as it impacts against the wall, the contents exploding outwards and splattering onto the floor.

Wiping kibble from his face Frank looks at Gerard and asks evenly, “Feeling better?”

Gerard’s hair is snarled into knots and he drags his fingers through them, anger barely contained as he says, “No.”

Frank never expected he would be, not when Mikey’s still missing. Picking up another can he holds it out to Gerard. “Don’t aim at my head this time.”

Gerard takes the can, but then drops it, the can rolling across the ground and ending up nestled against the leg of the table. Gerard’s watching it roll, his head down and breathing heavy, like he’s fighting for control.

“I need to go out again,” Gerard says, his desperation so present that Frank imagines he’s breathing it in -- thick and heavy and full of despair. “I should be out there looking.”

“You’ve been looking.” And that’s the problem, Gerard has, non-stop for days now and if he doesn’t get some rest they’re going to lose him too. It’s why Frank’s here now, on guard duty as he approaches Gerard, standing close as he says, “We’ll find him.”

“And what if we don’t?”

It’s the first time Gerard’s verbalized that possibility, and Frank’s chest is aching, his every instinct to promise that Mikey will be fine. He doesn’t, just takes a step forward and drops his head so his forehead is against Gerard’s chest, his arms around Gerard’s waist, holding on as they move toward yet another day.

~*~*~*~

Patrick’s hat is hiding his face, his attention solely on the components laid out on the bench when he says, “You’re aware they’ll probably shoot you when you see him with you.”

“Which is why I’m taking him back now,” Bob says, and holds out his raygun, checking all parts are working correctly. When he’s sure that they are, Bob clicks on the safety and tucks the gun in his thigh holster, and looks at Patrick who’s pointedly soldering together two bits of wire. It makes Bob feel guilty that Patrick’s so obviously worried, but even if they need him out of here, Bob’s not about to dump Kobra Kid in the desert. “I’ll take him back and then get out of there before they see me.”

“And what then?” Patrick twists around on his chair, making it squeal on the rusty wheels. “You’ve spent all this time hiding and now you’re about to announce yourself to the fucking Killjoys. Even if you do get away he knows what you look like.”

Bob uses the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his face. Even this late it’s too hot, the workshop’s metal walls retaining the heat despite the main doors being thrown open. Bob feels wrung out and his head aches, and that’s before he has to get Kobra Kid into the Jeep and take him back home.

“I need to get going,” Bob says, and resists the urge to kick the nearest hard surface when Patrick turns his back in reply.

The living areas are built behind the workshop, and Bob walks through the tiny kitchen to his bedroom. Pushing aside the blanket he sees Kobra Kid’s sitting on the bed, both legs straight and outstretched, his back against the wall. He’s still too pale, and dressed in Bob’s too big clothes he looks much younger than he has to be.

Bob reminds himself that even if he does look harmless right now, Kobra Kid’s anything but, especially when he’s got his own shredded clothes bundled beside him, his raygun held on his lap.

Kobra Kid runs his thumb over the barrel of the gun, says, “I could shoot you right now.”

“You could,” Bob agrees, and busies himself putting bottles of water into a bag. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. You’d be dead before I hit the floor.” More importantly, Kobra Kid needs Bob to get him home, because right now, he’s going nowhere without help.

It’s something that neither are stating out loud, but the knowledge is there in the way Kobra Kid’s inching himself forward, mouth a thin line and his hand shaking minutely as he rubs the sweat from his brow.

Bob’s already offered pain pills, and been promptly shot down. He’s not going to offer again, and loops the bag over his shoulder, says, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”

Kobra Kid glares, and Bob gives him an unimpressed look before going outside. He’s pulled the Jeep as close to the door as possible, and drops the bag in the back before checking inside. Instinct kicking in as he counts ammo supplies and ensures that the spare raygun he keeps hidden in the footwell is still there. When he’s sure everything’s as ready as it ever can be, Bob turns and takes a moment to just stand, enjoying the quiet.

He knows it won’t last. Even if Kobra Kid’s not talking that much his silences are pointed, and all Bob wants is to be back in his workshop. Where he can lose himself in engines and machines, work that’s important and also lets Bob escape from his own head.

Instead he’s heading for the outer zones, a wanted zone runner in his care. Bob kicks at the tire of his Jeep and then goes back inside.

In the time that Bob’s been gone, Kobra Kid’s managed to get to the edge of the bed, and he’s sitting motionless, back straight and legs angled toward the ground. He’s also a shade of deathly white and Bob’s preparing himself for body catching duties in case of a faint.

“You’d better be here to tell me we’re going,” Kobra Kid says, and he’s clutching his raygun, his knuckles white.

“We’re going,” Bob says, and plants himself in the doorway, staring Kobra Kid down. “I’m going to help you stand. If you attack me I’ll end you.”

Kobra Kid stares levelly back. “If you’re afraid of that you shouldn't have given me my gun.”

Bob would laugh, because right now Kobra Kid looks as nonthreatening as a skewered lizard. But one thing Bob’s learned is never to underestimate, and as weak as Kobra Kid appears, Bob’s not about to drop his guard. He steps forward, says, “I’m not afraid of you. I just want you gone.”

Kobra Kid’s hand is a tight fist as he says icily, “You brought me here.”

“I did,” Bob agrees, and cutting through expected protests he hooks his hands under Kobra Kid’s arms and pulls him to his feet. Immediately Kobra Kid gasps and squeezes shut his eyes as he sways. Bob keeps hold, keeping him steady. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Reassessing his plans, Bob ducks and without warning, hefts Kobra Kid onto his shoulder. Which can’t be the most comfortable of positions, and Bob would be sorry, except there’s no way that Kobra Kid’s able to walk.

“It’s the only way,” Bob says, the way Kobra Kid’s body relaxes showing he’s finally passed out. Which is for the best, and, hold secure, Bob heads for the door.

~*~*~*~

Mikey hates coming around after passing out. Each time he’s scrambling to make sense of the situation, adrenalin battling against the need to just sleep. Still, he opens his eyes and tries to access where he is now. Not that it’s easy. His head heavy, Mikey clenches his fists as the world spins around him. He knows he’s not in the bed, and it doesn’t feel like he’s inside either, but after that he’s got nothing.

“You’re in my Jeep.”

Slowly, Mikey turns his head toward the back of Bob’s seat, sees strands of blond hair and the knot of Bob’s bandanna, and then Bob’s face as he turns and looks toward the back.

“You passed out.”

Which means Mikey’s been hauled around bodily once again. Angry and hurting and most of all, fucking frustrated, he sits, blinking away the black spots in his vision until he’s propped up and able to speak. “Where are we?”

“Zone 3,” Bob says, and the light he’s got attached to the dash causes shadows that stretch and flicker. “I’d have woken you up soon. I need to know a destination”

Mikey glares at the back of Bob’s head, says, “Drop me off at the edge of zone 4.”

“Not going to happen.” Bob’s got his elbow resting on the side of the Jeep, the wind catching the sleeve of his t-shirt and making it balloon. He’s driving one-handed, confident as he steers around a boulder and into a dip, the Jeep kicking up sand.

“Yeah, it will happen,” Mikey says, because he’s not about to reveal the diner’s location to a stranger, even if he has been looking after Mikey for the last few days.

“You can’t even walk right now,” Bob says, and doesn’t even bother looking back. “You’d be picked off by Dracs or S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W before sunrise.”

While he recognizes the truth in Bob’s statement, Mikey’s not about to give in. Maybe he can’t walk easily right now, but that doesn’t mean he can’t walk at all. Shoulders tights and spine straight, he says, “I’ll manage.”

Bob brings the Jeep to an abrupt stop and turns in his seat. “For fuck’s sake, are you always so obstinate and stupid?”

The borrowed pants slide down Mikey’s hips as he uses his arms to push himself up, eyeing how to exit the Jeep. While the side is high, Mikey’s determined, and desperate to get home. “I’m out of here.”

Bob slams his hand on the dash, the muscles in his arm bunched. “I didn’t save your ass so you could go off and commit suicide.”

“I didn’t ask you to save it,” Mikey says, almost snarling.

“Maybe you didn’t, but I did anyway, so suck it up already and let me help you.” At the last Bob stops talking, and the sudden silence is ringing. Then he goes on, quieter. “Look, I know you want to get back. I want you to get back, I want you out of my fucking hair. But you can’t do it alone.”

More than anything Mikey wants to disagree. But with ill grace, he admits to himself that Bob’s got a point. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but if you give away the location you’re dead.”

Gears grind as Bob starts to drive. “Who the hell would I tell? It may have escaped your notice but I’m not exactly friends with S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W.”

“You could be,” Mikey spits back, and again irritation flairs, burning hot and beyond his control. “Some kind of undercover operative out in the field. You and your fucking ugly pink Jeep. How the fuck did you get it anyway? Mugging Barbie?”

“I found it,” Bob says shortly, and his expression in the mirror is set, his mouth a tight line. “And considering what you’re wearing you’ve no room to talk about colors.”

Mikey looks down at his t-shirt and jacket. At the leather that’s even more scuffed now and the yellow fabric covered in faint blood stains that haven’t washed away. The bright colors are his own fuck you to the world, a rebellion through yellow and red.

He suspects Bob’s Jeep could serve the same purpose, but Mikey’s in no mood for discussion and he rubs at one of his knees, feeling the bandage that conceals the stitches. His skin feels itchy, sore when he presses his fingers over the raised lines.

“Stop that.”

Mikey looks up and sees that Bob’s using the mirror to watch him. Deliberately rubbing again, Mikey says, “Or what?”

“Or I’ll put mittens on you,” Bob snaps back. “And tape them on.”

Mikey tries not to laugh, but Bob sounds serious and all Mikey can think about is what he’d look like with mittens on his own hands. For the first time in days he smiles, mouth curling up at the corner. “Can you even get mittens any more?”

“I’ll make some,” Bob says, and he’s still watching Mikey in the mirror. “Jesus, you’re hard work.”

“Not the first time I’ve been told that,” Mikey says, trying to get comfortable. Outside, they’ve moved from driving on sand to one of the dirt tracks that criss cross the zones, and Mikey stares into the darkness, trying to get his bearings. Head aching, he knows they’re still a long way from home, and he seeks a distraction. “Why did you take me back anyway?”

“You’re seriously asking that now?” Bob asks, sounding bemused.

“Never had the opportunity before.” Mikey slumps back, head tilted as he looks up to where the stars should be. “And I was unconscious a lot.”

“I liked those times,” Bob says, without a hint of a smile. Then stops speaking and Mikey’s half asleep when Bob finally answers the question. “I’d never leave any human in the desert. Even if they are hostile fuckers with a paranoia complex.”

Mikey’s eyes are heavy and he’s staring blankly at the back of Bob’s neck, thinking of his reason for taking Mikey in. In a way it’s not that different to what the Killjoys believe, saving people but on a much more individual scale. Mikey rests his hand on his knee, palm flat and hoping the scant heat will ease the ache. “I’m not really that hostile.”

“I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve threatened to kill me,” Bob says. “That’s hostile.”

“That’s survival,” Mikey says, and then. “Keep following this track, I’ll tell you when to branch off.”

Bob nods and keeps driving.

~*~*~*~

It’s Ray’s patrol and Frank’s curled up on the floor of the diner, head on his bent knees as he fights to stay awake. He’s exhausted, his whole body aching and his skin tight, dry from spending hours in the sun. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, listening to Gerard’s footsteps as he walks from one side of the room to the other.

“You need to sleep,” Frank says, already knowing what Gerard will say.

“Can’t.” Gerard starts walking again, retracing his steps to the other side of the room. “We should have heard something by now. He was just in front of us, Frank.”

Frank remembers screeching out of Battery City, Gerard laughing and the zap of laser bolts as Mikey tore past on the stolen bike. The last time Frank saw Mikey’s face he was grinning, and Frank concentrates on that grin. How Mikey was so confident, sure, as he hacked the engine and gave a thumbs up before speeding away.

It’s what Mikey did, _does_ , and Frank sure he’s okay. He has to be, because without Mikey they’ll be done. That’s inevitable.

“I’m going to the city tomorrow,” Gerard says. In the dim light his hair looks more blood red than scarlet, the marks on his neck bruises to match those under his eyes. “Someone will know something, they have to.”

Frank will go with him, even if it’ll be another wasted trip. Because Mikey’s just gone, vanished in a way that shouldn’t be possible with the network of spies and friends that keep them informed. Which leaves Frank thinking the worst, about rumors of creatures that roam the desert, about smashed bodies and gnawed bones.

They’re thoughts that won’t leave him, and he swallows hard, his stomach twisting.

Unexpectedly, the door opens, Ray looking inside. He’s frowning, his raygun drawn. “Head’s up. There’s something coming.”

Frank scrambles to his feet, going for his own gun. While visitors this late aren’t unheard of, usually it means nothing good, and Frank’s heart is racing as he runs for the door. Charging outside, he stands side by side with Gerard, guns drawn as lights appear on the horizon, and the sound of an engine gets louder.

Head tilted to one side, Ray says, “It doesn’t sound like Dracs or S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, and there’s only one engine.”

Frank takes his word for it, but doesn’t drop his gun. Even if it’s not a raid unexpected visits never seem to end well.

Together they wait, and what starts as two lights forms into a Jeep, old and battered. There’s a man driving, and a shadowy figure behind him. Frank keeps a careful watch, ready for the sudden flash of a drawn gun or explosive devise.

The Jeep pulls to a stop, and then, Gerard’s yelling, “Mikey!”

Already Gerard’s running forward, and more than anything Frank wants to follow. But he remains in place, gun drawn in case this is some kind of trap.

“I’m okay,” Mikey says, allowing Gerard to pull him into a tight hug, but Mikey’s also not moving, and Frank knows that something’s wrong.

Ray steps forward, his gun still trained on the driver of the Jeep. “Who are you?”

The driver holds up his hands, says, “Bob. And all I’m doing is bringing him back.”

Frank’s attention is divided between Bob, and Gerard and Mikey, who’re still clinging together, Gerard on his tip toes and his jacket hitched up as he hangs over the side of the Jeep. “Bringing him back from where?”

“My place,” Bob says, evading any specific details, which Frank would call him on but Mikey’s peering over Gerard’s shoulder, waving his hand toward Bob.

“Don’t shoot him, he’s been looking after me.”

“You needed looking after?” Ray sounds concerned as he heads for the Jeep. “What happened?”

Mikey grabs for Ray, their heads together within the group hug. “I wiped out on the bike.”

Mikey sounds blasé, like the crash was nothing, but his words are contradicted by the way he’s still not moving, and is still clutching Gerard like he’s the only thing that’s keeping Mikey steady. Holstering his raygun, Frank trusts Mikey’s judgment and runs to the Jeep.

Wiggling between Gerard and Ray he grabs hold of Mikey, holding him close and breathing him in. Which is when Frank smells the blood, old but there and he presses a quick kiss against Mikey’s cheek before saying, “How bad is it?”

“He’s fucked up both legs, bones are okay but the skin was shredded.” Bob’s sitting twisted in his seat, looking toward the back and at Mikey’s look says, “You were about to tell them you’re fine, and you’re not fucking fine.”

For a moment Mikey bristles, like he’s about to deny what Bob’s just said, then he relaxes, and leans heavily against Gerard. “I’ve got a few stitches is all.”

“More than a few,” Bob says, and looks away from Mikey to Gerard. “I’ve bandaged his knees but he needs to keep them straight. I suggest tying him to a bed.”

Normally Frank would jump anyone talking to Mikey that way. But there’s no actual heat behind Bob’s words, and Mikey himself seems fine with what he’s saying.

“We need to get you inside.” Gerard’s fussing now, pushing back Mikey’s hair as if it’s concealing some wound, and then frowning when he looks toward Mikey’s legs. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“They’re my pants,” Bob says, and pointedly turns back around, one hand on the steering wheel. “I need to get back.”

“I’ll be going then,” Mikey says, and starts to push himself up. Only to be gently eased back down by Gerard.

“Let us do the work,” Gerard says, and takes a step back so he’s standing just behind Mikey. “I’ll pull you out.”

Mikey turns and glares, says, “No you won’t. You’re not carrying me.”

Frank’s sympathetic, there’s nothing worse than having to be carried around, especially when you’re not actually unconscious or on the verge of death. But he knows Gerard isn’t going to back down, which will be interesting as it’s obvious Mikey isn’t either.

“How about we help you out but you walk back under your own steam?” Ray asks, but he doesn’t give Mikey any time to reply, just hooks him under the arms and pulls him out of the Jeep. It’s not a particularly smooth move, while the Jeep is open topped the sides are still high and Ray’s pushing himself up on his toes, using brute strength to get Mikey up and then pulled back. Gerard and Frank immediately stepping in to support Mikey’s legs and making sure they don’t scrape over the metal.

“Fuckers,” Mikey says, and he’s got a death grip on Ray’s arm, brows pulled together as Ray keeps hold, so Mikey’s held against his chest. “I said I could do it myself.”

Gerard shifts his grip, holding Mikey’s leg at his thigh and calf. “We know you can. But it’s easier this way.”

“You’d have only fainted again,” Bob says, watching them in the mirror. “Don’t you dare bust those stitches, and drink lots. You left half of your body weight in blood on my floor.”

Letting his head rest against Ray’s shoulder, Mikey looks over at Bob. “I didn’t know that you cared.”

Bob turns away, says, “I don’t.”

“Wait.” Gerard talks over the sound of Bob starting the Jeep’s engine. “He lost that much blood? Is there anything else we should know?”

“That he’s a hostile fucker,” Bob says, putting the Jeep into gear. Then he hesitates, as if debating with himself before adding. “It’s mostly bruising and the stitches. Keep those from getting infected and he’ll be fine.”

Gerard smiles, some of the tension he’s been carrying for days easing. “Thank you. For everything.”

Bob inclines his head toward Mikey. “I’d say it was nice meeting you, but.... you know it wasn’t. See you Kobra Kid.”

Mikey hesitates, then says, “My name’s Mikey.”

Bob nods, then drives away.

~*~*~*~

More than anything Mikey hates being carried. It’s a sign of weakness he doesn’t like to display, but at the same time, he’s thankful that Ray’s taken the initiative. Truth is, Mikey’s feeling so weak that actual walking would have been an issue.

Secure in Ray’s arms, he relaxes, finally allowing his shields to come down now they’re alone. Eyes closing, he’s vaguely aware of going inside, and being taken to their room at the back of the diner. Formally a kitchen the appliances have been stripped away, mattresses and blankets filling the corner furthest away from the door.

Usually those blankets are a tangled mess, but right now they’re neat, pulled smooth and unwrinkled. Mikey looks toward Gerard and states, “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“You were missing,” Gerard says, as if that’s a full answer, and to Mikey it is. Without Bob watching Gerard’s letting his true emotions show through, relief unable to conceal former fear.

Gently lowered to the ground, Mikey settles on the mattress, and takes a deep breath. Of musty covers and dirty material, the grease that always seems to clings no matter how long the kitchen’s been bare. It’s the smell of home, no matter how makeshift.

“We’ve been looking for you.” Gerard settles down next to Mikey, sitting at his side, legs crossed as he starts to ease Mikey’s arm out of his jacket. “We didn’t know where you’d gone.”

Mikey remembers the adrenaline rush of Dracs on his tail, the sound of squealing engines and laser bursts cutting through the air. It was a chase that seemed to last for hours, and he admits. “I didn’t know where I’d gone either. But I wiped out when I got there.”

“No shit,” Frank says, his eyes widening as Gerard takes off Mikey’s jacket, exposing the bruises that run the length of his arms. “What the hell did you do, land against a cliff?”

Mikey shrugs, taking in the bruising. In the last day it’s darkened even further and he bends his arm, making bruises meet at the elbow.

“Stop that.” Gerard rests his hand on Mikey’s arm, stopping him from moving. “Lie down so I can take your pants off.”

“You haven’t even bought me dinner,” Mikey says, and eases himself down.

“We’ll bring you water, that’ll have to do,” Ray says, and he takes Mikey’s jacket from Gerard and drapes it over the back of a chair. “Or something to eat if you’re hungry?”

Mikey shakes his head, the thought of eating making him nauseous. “I’m not hungry.”

Gently, Gerard pushes Mikey back until he’s lying straight, his head on the lumpy pillows. Eyes almost fully closed, he looks at the burn marks on the ceiling and lies lax as Gerard eases off the borrowed pants, and then hisses, says, “Fuck, Mikey.”

Frank kneels on the edge of the mattress, says, “That’s fucking impressive.”

“Fucking painful looking,” Ray says, heading toward the other room.

“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Mikey lies, and forces himself not to flinch at the feel of Gerard carefully touching his knee.

Gerard touches the other knee. “Your skin feels hot. Did Bob say they were hot?”

Mikey lets his eyes close fully. “He said lots of things, but I don’t think he was attracted to my knees.”

“Then he’s blind.”

Ray’s voice, and then the feel of the mattress dipping before someone lifts Mikey’s head and presses the lip of a bottle against his mouth.

“Drink,” Ray says, and Mikey does, swallowing a mouthful of tepid water, and then the pills that someone slips into his mouth.

Mikey’s not sure what they’re for, but that doesn’t matter as he settles back down, a blanket draped over him and Gerard close to his side.

“Sleep,” Gerard says, and Mikey does.

~*~*~*~

Patrick’s sitting outside the workshop, hat pulled down low and a pair of goggles on the top of his head. He’s cradling a tin mug and when Bob gets close says, “You got back alive then.”

Bob slides down to sit next to Patrick, and plucks the mug out of his hands. Taking a long drink he grimaces at the taste of weak instant coffee. “I did.”

“Get your own, ass,” Patrick says, but makes no attempt to take back the mug. Instead he glances at Bob before picking up a transistor radio that’s set by his side, the guts spilling out in a fountain of burnt wires. Delicately, he starts to separate them out. “So, what were they like?”

It takes Bob a moment to realize who Patrick means. He shrugs and takes another drink. Even if the coffee does taste vile at least it’s hot and wet, something Bob needs right now. Fingers curled around the mug he thinks about the Killjoys, who were exactly how he was expecting, but also, not at all. “They threatened to shoot me.”

Patrick’s head jerks up as he looks at Bob. “I knew it.”

“Kobra Kid told them not to,” Bob says, and while he’s not going to forget that initial meeting, the realisation that if he wasn’t friendly they could have blown him away, he’s also remembering their reactions when they saw Kobra Kid, those first few unguarded moments. “They were glad to see him.”

Patrick prises apart a mess of fused wires. “Glad someone was.”

“He wasn’t that bad,” Bob says, surprising himself. “For a hostile, bed ridden zone runner.”

“I guess,” Patrick allows, and then sets the radio to one side. “Having him here was stupid, we could have been raided any moment, and we’ve too much to lose.”

“I know,” Bob says, and he does. They’ve built up this place too carefully to take chances now. But the fact remains, he’d do it again. “But....”

“You couldn’t leave him.” Patrick sighs and slides off both his hat and goggles, and runs his hand over his head. “I know you couldn’t, and I’m glad he’s okay. And that he’s gone.”

Bob drains the last of the coffee and hands the empty mug back to Patrick. “Me too, even if he took my pants with him.”

Patrick climbs to his feet. “Pants for peace of mind. Sounds like a good trade to me.”

All Bob can do is agree.

~*~*~*~

Mikey wakes sandwiched between Gerard and Frank, Ray lying on his side so he can rest his arm over them all. It’s a comfortable position, and Mikey rests his forehead against Gerard’s shoulder, taking a moment to luxuriate in feeling so safe. He’s also feels hot, and sweaty and thirsty.

It’s a combination he’s used to, the same as he’s used to dealing with various aches and pains, but the more he wakes the more his legs are hurting, and Mikey presses his clenched fist against his mouth.

“Mikey?” Gerard eyes are half open, the corner of his mouth wet as he turns so he can look at Mikey. “What’s up?”

Mikey shakes his head, breathing through the pain until he can say, “Nothing. Just forgot how much stitches fucking suck.”

Frank moves, his skin peeling from Mikey’s where their arms are together. “I’ll get you something.”

Gerard pushes back Mikey’s hair and lets his hand linger a moment, his fingers against the side of Mikey’s face. “You should have woken me.”

“Just woke myself,” Mikey says, and steels himself to move and sit up. Which he does, cursing as he settles with his back against the wall.

Gerard’s watching, worry apparent but not vocalized. Propped on one elbow, he gently touches Mikey’s knees. “They’re still hot.”

“I’ll put the word out for antibiotics.” Ray’s voice is rough and his face is hidden behind his hair until he flops onto his back. He’s still wearing all of his clothes and his t-shirt is already damp under his arms. “We’ve guns to trade.”

“We need the guns,” Mikey says, poking at a spot on his right knee, where the end of one stitch is sticking out the side of the bandage.

Gerard slaps at Mikey’s hand. “You need your legs more.”

“You can have them.” It’s a half genuine offer, prompted by frustration and the jolt of pain when Mikey attempts to bend his knee the smallest amount. Hands cupping his knee, he bends forward, all too aware of just how long he’s going to stuck doing nothing.

“Got that out of your system now?” Gerard asks, and sits up himself, so he’s right next to Mikey. “If not I’ll go out and get some boards for your legs.”

Mikey stops touching, and looks down his own legs, examining the lines of stitches. The ones clustered on his knees are hidden by the bandages, but there’s more slashing across his thighs and in tracks down his shins. Cutting in deep and sure to leave scars. “I think you and Bob went to the same nursing school.”

“Bob went to nursing school?” Ray asks, and Mikey shakes his head.

“He threatened to tie me to the bed.” Mikey wiggles his fingers. “And tape on mittens.”

“I could make mittens,” Frank says, coming into the room and throwing himself down next to Ray. He’s holding a water bottle which he hands over to Mikey, along with a handful of pills. Red, white and yellow capsules all grouped together. “Pain pills and your usuals.”

Grateful, Mikey takes the pills and swallows them all in one go, following with a drink of water. “Thanks.”

Frank smiles, and looks thoughtful as he sprawls across Ray. “I could make mittens with added gun grips. That’d be rad.”

Mikey’s sure that he could, but that doesn’t take away from the fact he doesn’t actually want mittens. He looks over at Frank. “Keep them for MotorBaby,” and then, his mind playing catch up he asks. “Where is she, anyway?”

“Dr D and Show Pony took her, they’re scouting a new place for a hide out,” Ray says, his brow creased in a frown. “There’s been more attacks, we figured we’d better get ready to move in a hurry.”

Mikey’s confused, because while they trust Dr Death and Show Pony always, he can’t imagine Gerard not going along on the search. Or at least not sending either Frank or Ray. “I thought you’d go with them?”

“We would have, but some idiot went missing,” Frank says, rolling his eyes. “We wouldn’t have left here when we were looking for you.”

“You’d have had to eventually,” Mikey says. “Especially if this place was compromised.”

Gerard shakes his head, says shortly, “No we wouldn’t.”

It’s not an unexpected response, at least for an immediate reaction. But Mikey’s getting the feeling there’s more to the outburst than that. He looks between them all, trying to decode by body language and expressions alone. “Did something happen?”

“Apart from you staying missing you mean? Gerard asks, far too casual. He runs his hand through his hair and glances over at Frank. “No.”

Mikey picks through the words, matching them with the way Gerard’s sitting so close, and hasn’t left his side for a moment. A combination that clues him in to lingering fear that he suspects is bound with guilt. “I’m going to be fine.”

“Because someone found you,” Gerard says, and he picks at the specks of dye that are always splattered over his skin. “If he hadn’t you’d have died, I couldn’t find you.”

“Because I was at Bob’s,” Mikey points out, and then, “I took the bike on my own, Gee. You didn’t make me.”

Blood beads against Gerard’s thumb nail. “I could have stopped you.”

“No you couldn’t,” Mikey says simply, and grabs for a rumpled blanket, pulling it up so it covers his legs. “I needed a new bike, and that one was there.”

“It was a sweet bike.” Frank grins, wide and sly. “Shame it was taken by a sucky rider.”

“Fuck you,” Mikey says easily. “I got away from the Dracs.”

Frank waves his hand dismissively. “Details.” Then elbows Ray hard in shoulder. “Go and make breakfast. I’m hungry.”

“You can open your own can,” Ray says, frowning at Frank. “I’ve seen you do it.”

Frank sighs and gets to his feet. “Busted.” Then looks over at Mikey. “I’ll bring you something.”

Mikey leans so his head is against Gerard’s. “Pancakes, syrup and fresh coffee?”

“Sure,” Frank says, and then, “Or you could have kibble.”

Despite his lack of actual hunger, Mikey says, “Bring it on.”

~*~*~*~

Bob’s surrounded by parts of Kobra Kid’s bike. They circle around him, chrome dented and sooty, paint scratched and splattered with blood. Putting them back together will be an almost impossible task, but Bob’s up for the challenge.

He picks up a crumpled piece of metal, assessing the damage while mentally slotting it together with the other pieces that are laid out on the workshop floor.

“That looks like a headache in the making,” someone says, and Bob looks up, seeing Jet Star standing at the open doorway. He’s holding his helmet in one hand, and the other is held close to his gun.

“Your timing sucks,” Bob says, making no attempt to stand, because if he’s going to go down anyway, why not bleeding out among the pieces of a last engine. “I wouldn’t have done all this if I knew you planned to kill me.”

Jet Star frowns. “Who says I’m going to kill you?”

“You’re preparing to draw,” Bob says, but he’s also starting to doubt his first instinct, because Jet Star’s not moving, just looking at Bob as if he’s insane.

“I’m, what?” Jet Star drops his hand. “Sorry, habit.”

Bob gets to his feet, an expanse of metal separating him and Jet Star. “So you’re not here to kill me because I know where you’re based?”

“Lot’s of people know where we’re based,” Jet Star says, and something in his pocket rustles when he pats it with his hand. “I’ve been on a trade and thought I’d call in.”

“Why?” Still keeping a safe distance, Bob picks his way through the parts until he’s on the same side as Jet Star. “And how the fuck did you know where I live?”

“You’re not that hard to track down,” Jet Star says.

“Bullshit.” Bob doesn’t believe that at all. Even if Kobra Kid did remember the general location, Bob lives so far off the grid that most people don’t know him at all. And even if they do, it’s as a voice on the end of a line, not an actual person. To be found like this means the Killjoys have been looking, hard.

Jet Star shrugs. “Believe what you want.” He takes a step into the workshop, looking around. “We need a mechanic. We’ll trade supplies for time.”

“I don’t do house calls,” Bob says, and he wipes his hands down the front of his t-shirt, leaving behind oily smears.

“Your choice,” Jet Star says, and then turns. “If you change your mind you know where we are.”

Bob watches as Jet Star strides toward his motorbike which he’s left standing close to the workshop. Movements fluid, he sits and starts the engine, pulling on his helmet before roaring away, dust kicked up in his wake.

~*~*~*~

“If you go you’re crazy.” Patrick’s got his modified laptop on his lap, the signal booster tied up high above his head. Keys click as he types, code scrolling down the screen so fast Bob can barely make out the words.

“I haven’t said I am going,” Bob snaps, and dumps the contents of the can into a bowl, kibble splashing against his wrist. He brings his hand to his mouth, licking off the spill.

Patrick’s still staring at the screen, shadowed waves rippling over his face. “But you’re going anyway. Because you’re fucking stupid.”

“I haven’t said if I’m going,” Bob repeats, each word deliberate. He sits, folding himself down on the back seat of a Dodge that’s pushed up close to the wall.

“I don’t get it.” Patrick does look up then, hands held still as he says, “What’s the attraction? I get that you’ve got a fucking savior complex and had to drag in Kobra Kid, but this? Don’t we do enough without helping the Killjoys?”

Truthfully, Bob can’t explain the attraction. Just, he knows that it’s there. It’s not something he’s examined, or even fully admitted to himself but he knows he’s going to agree to the trade. It’s just a case of when.

~~~~~

Less then twenty-four hours later and Bob knows he can’t wait any longer.

A combination of concern for Kobra Kid, admiration, but most of all, curiosity is pulling Bob toward the Killjoys. He wants to experience their world and see how they work, how the parts of the group fit together to make that one perfectly aligned unit.

It’s a practical reason for a practical decision. At least that’s what Bob tells himself as he leaves a note for Patrick, weighing it down with his laptop before going outside.

~~~~

It’s close to midday when Bob parks in front of the diner. It appears deserted but he catches the glint of a lens from the roof, and Bob hunches his shoulders, chin close to his chest.

He’s expecting to be greeted at any moment, probably finding himself at the end of a gun, but no one appears. Bob ends up standing close to the entrance, looking at the boards that are nailed over the door while listening to the sounds of shouting from inside.

He’s not sure what’s actually being said, and is debating walking away, when the boards are abruptly pushed to one side.

“Your timing is fucking perfect.” It’s Fun Ghoul holding the boards, and for a moment Bob sees a flash of relief before Fun Ghoul’s expression hardens and he stands to one side, holding the boards up with one hand. “Come on already.”

Inside the shouting is louder, and Bob’s got his hand resting on his gun as he ducks low under Fun Ghoul’s arm, then follows him into a second room. Which is when Bob drops his hand, seeing that it’s Kobra Kid yelling. He’s sitting on a mattress, blankets crumpled around him, his face red as he glares up at Party Poison, who’s pacing the room.

Fun Ghoul steps in front of him, holding out his hand to stop Party Poison from moving. “We’ve got a babysitter.”

“I don’t need a fucking, babysitter,” Kobra Kid says, and while he’s stopped yelling, his tone is like ice. “If you won’t take me with you I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Not going to happen.” Jet Star’s pulls on his jacket and tugs it into place, seemingly immune to the way Kobra Kid’s glaring in his direction. “Someone’s staying with you.”

“You’ll be back with us soon,” Party Poison says, and now that he’s still it seems he’s pulling in a new focus, becoming more like the defiant figure on the wanted posters as opposed to the one Bob saw a few days before. He turns to Bob, giving him a long look. “You can shoot, right?”

“Of course I can shoot,” Bob says, and bites back the urge to ask why it even matters, because it’s not like he’s about to stay. Not to babysit anyway. “Look, I don’t....”

“There’s a raid planned in zone three, one of the orphanages.” Jet Star’s movements are abrupt and he checks his gun before sliding it into his thigh holster. “They’re going to attack the kids.”

Bob thinks about the messages Patrick’s received. While none have warned of an attack like this Bob knows the Killjoys methods and contacts will be different, and Bob trusts their intel.

Not that makes staying here any more appealing. He looks down at Kobra Kid, asks, “Can I gag him if he starts yelling again?”

Fun Ghoul grins, amusement briefly breaking through. “If you do, don’t use anything leather, he likes it too much.”

“Fuck. You,” Kobra Kid says, stressing the words.

Party Poison picks up his mask, slipping it over his head, cutting off Fun Ghoul’s reply when he says, “We need to go.”

Fun Ghoul snaps shut his mouth, then he points at Bob, jabbing him in the chest. “Watch him, if we come back and he’s not okay I’ll end you.”

Party Poison drops to his knees on the mattress, says, “No you won’t. Because I’ll have got there first.”

Which is infuriating, because it’s not like Bob ever volunteered to stay, and he’d protest that except Party Poison’s bent forward, his hands on Kobra Kid’s shoulders and their foreheads together as he says something Bob can’t hear.

Whatever it is it’s making Kobra Kid settle, and he remains still, mouth clamped in a tight line and his fists clenching the blankets as Party Poison stands and leaves the room, the others following behind.

“I fucking hate this,” Kobra Kid says, the words bitter. He’s got his head down and flinches at the sound of an engine. “I should be with them.”

“Well you can’t,” Bob says, busy checking out the room. The walls of which are covered with posters, many of the Killkoys themselves, their faces changed with the addition of fangs, glasses and dubious facial hair. Bob peers at one of Jet Star with tusks before turning back to Kobra Kid. “The threats to my life get old.”

Kobra Kid shifts and rubs the heel of his hand down the side of his thigh. “They wouldn’t kill you, not when you brought me back.” He stops moving his hand, mouth twisted to the side as he adds. “They’d probably stop at maiming.”

“Probably. Great.” Bob takes another circuit of the room, not that there’s much to see apart from the art on the walls and a wooden chair covered in a messy pile of clothes. Apart from that there’s bare space and the makeshift bed in one corner, where Kobra Kid is settled into some kind of nest, surrounded by blankets, magazines and bottles, both full and empty, within reach.

He’s also got a radio, the back open and batteries spilt out onto the covers. Picking up a battery Kobra Kid slots it into the case, his head down and hair concealing his face. For a brief moment Bob has the urge to sweep back his hair and see what he’s hiding, but he doesn’t have that right. Instead Bob looks out through the cracks between the boards covering the window, and then settles on the edge of the chair, preparing himself for a long, tedious wait.

Kobra Kid puts in a second battery and looks up, says, “It’ll be more comfortable down here.”

“Are you going to shoot me if I sit that close?” Bob asks.

Kobra Kid pushes the back of the radio into place with an audible snap. “You’d get blood on the blankets, so no.”

Bob’s sure he’s not about to be shot, but still, it feels strange sitting on the mattress, like he’s stepping into a space that’s more intimately Kobra Kid’s. Careful not to rest his feet on the magazines, he stretches out his legs, his back against the wall and a pillow pushed to one side.

Radio on his lap, Kobra Kid’s turning the dial, trying to find a station amongst all the static. There’s nothing, just the hiss and crackle of empty air, but he doesn’t stop trying, and Bob gets himself comfortable, zoning out to the sound of white noise.

“You haven’t asked how I’m doing.”

The words are unexpected and Bob opens his eyes, seeing Kobra Kid has his hand frozen over the dial as he looks over at Bob.

“Most people would ask how I was feeling.”

Bob shrugs. “You’re talking and breathing, your legs haven’t fallen off. I figured you’re doing okay.”

For a long moment Kobra Kid says nothing, then he laughs and grins over at Bob. “You should tell the others that. They might let me off this fucking mattress.”

“So they can shoot me? I don’t think so,” Bob says, taking note of how different Kobra Kid looks when he’s not scowling or threatening to kill. “You’re stuck here.”

“Yeah.” Kobra Kid sighs, and pushes back his hair, looking anywhere at Bob. “I never said. Thank you.”

“You mean for dragging your sorry ass out of the desert, saving your life and then putting up with you for days?” Bob asks.

“I would have saved myself eventually,” Kobra Kid says, chin up as he pushes back his hair. “You just got there first.”

Bob remembers Kobra Kid crumpled on the ground, the sand dark around him, the way he hadn’t regained full consciousness for a couple of days. There’s not a chance he would have got to safety alone, and Bob would stress that, but he’s not that cruel.

Bob picks up a magazine, says, “If you say so.”

“I do.” Kobra Kid picks up a magazine himself and starts to leaf through the pages. Then stops, his hand on a page. “I guess I should say sorry for all the shit I said back then.”

“You should or you are saying?” Bob asks, not looking up from an article promoting the Cleanse Fresh Diet. “Because you’re lucky I didn’t throw you back in the desert.”

“Am sorry,” Kobra Kid says and then. “I’m not the best patient and I didn’t know you.”

“You don’t know me now,” Bob points out, and he’s trying to reconcile this Kobra Kid with the one who spent time at the workshop. It’s like comparing a kitten to a snarling tiger and right now Bob’s got no idea which one is real.

“You brought me home.” Kobra Kid sits forward, wincing as he pulls a pillow from behind his back. Almost flat, it’s got a crimson stain in the middle and he tries to plump it up before giving up and throwing it to one side. “My fucking back’s killing me.”

Bob knows that, apart from bruising, Kobra Kid’s back wasn’t injured in the crash, which means any pain is due to lying around for so long. It also means Bob can help, well practiced with easing muscle strains and aching joints. It’s just, he doesn’t know if he wants to, not when other methods could help first. He looks around, says, “Do you have any pain pills?”

Kobra Kid folds forward, chest close to his legs. “Have them but can’t take them yet.”

Bob looks down at the article again, trying to ignore the pained sounds Kobra Kid makes as he stretches. When Bob’s read the sentence about prune shakes at least five times he slams down the magazine and gets onto his knees. “Lie on your side.”

“The fuck?” Kobra Kid straightens, and goes for his gun. “If you’re trying something I’ll vaporize your dick.”

“I wouldn’t touch you with anyone else’s dick, never mind mine,” Bob says, and sits back on his heels. “I was going to try and help, but forget it.”

Kobra Kid sets down his gun and puts his head in his hands. “Sorry. I’m going fucking insane right now.”

“You were insane before,” Bob points out, and even though he’s still debating the wisdom of offering again, he kneels up and says, “I’ll sort out your back if you promise not to shoot me.”

For a long moment it looks like Kobra Kid’s going to refuse, then he carefully rolls onto his side, his head resting on his arm. “So you’re some kind of masseuse as well as Florence Nightingale.”

Bob turns his attention to the art on the walls, working through his urge to hit Kobra Kid over the head with the nearest hard object. “I’m neither of those things, now shut the fuck up before I change my mind.”

It’s been a while since Bob’s done anything like this, but as he places his hands on Kobra Kid’s back it feels like yesterday that he was easing out knots and relieving tension. Careful of spreading bruising, he uses his thumbs in tiny circles, applying pressure over tight muscles.

Kobra Kid sighs, his face hidden as he says, “Do you always offer massages to total strangers?”

“You’re not a total stranger,” Bob says, but Kobra Kid does have a point. Even if Bob’s not touching bare skin and can tell himself this isn’t an intimate gesture, this isn’t something he’d usually do. He digs in his thumbs a little bit harder. “I’d do the same for anyone in need.”

“Florence Bob of the zone.” Kobra Kid sounds drowsy, and finally the muscles in his back are starting to relax. “And where would you get someone else’s dick to touch me with? Do you harvest them or something?”

“The fuck?” Bob stills his hands, trying to keep up with the jump in conversation. “Why would I harvest dicks?”

Kobra Kid yawns, and turns his head so he can see Bob. “Sex toys, to eat, windchimes maybe. I don’t know. You’re the one who has them.”

Bob can’t decide which one of those options is the most horrific. “To eat? Jesus, I think the crash has scrambled your brain.”

His eyes closed, Kobra Kid shakes his head. “It already was.”

Which Bob can believe, not that he says so, just stares when he realizes Kobra Kid has fallen asleep.

~*~*~*~

Normally they’d spent more time at the orphanage, today they leave as soon as they can.

It’s not that they don’t trust Bob, if they didn’t there’s no way they’d have left him alone with Mikey. But it’s not a trust that’s established, and Gerard has his foot down, hurtling them toward home.

In the back seat, Frank braces his hand against the door as the Trans Am hits a bump in the road, sending the car momentarily into the air.

“You know you can steer around those.” Ray’s gripping the frame of the passenger door, his head jerking forward when they land.

“It’s easier to plow though,” Gerard says, his hands white where he’s gripping the wheel. Between his wrist and the cuff of his jacket burned skin is visible, a livid red mark that starts from under his bracelet. Frank thinks about the supplies they’ve got in the trunk, their make-shift field med kit that seriously needs re-stocking right now.

“We’ll have to go to the city soon.” It’s not something Frank likes to do, going into Battery City is always suffocating, the sterile air feeling like it collapses his lungs, but some things are almost impossible to trade. Especially when it’s supplies that would expose a supposed weakness.

“We’ll go next week,” Gerard says, and when the diner comes into view he goes even faster. “Mikey should be back on his feet by then.”

Frank hopes so, because right now it feels like their group is unsteady. They need Mikey to shore up their ranks, but more than that, Frank misses Mikey. Who’s there in body and spirit, but missing when Frank walks at night, a calming steady presence. Or there when Frank takes one of the bikes and just _goes_ , Mikey’s arms tight around Frank’s waist and his laugh loud in his ear.

“He’ll be back to his best soon,” Ray says, optimistic as always, and Frank leans back in his seat, taking that optimism and using it to bolster his own.

Minutes later they pull to a stop, Gerard throwing open the door and jumping out before the Trans Am fully stops, as Ray leans over and shuts off the engine before hurrying after him, Frank close behind.

Gerard’s already inside when Frank pushes aside the boards. He steps into the diner, and is surprised to hear that it’s quiet. Expecting shouting, or at least some kind of talking, fear takes hold, the days of Mikey being missing fueling imagined scenes of him being dead, Bob standing over his bloody body. Frank runs, Ray a step behind.

“Shush.”

Frank pulls to an abrupt stop before he runs into Gerard’s outstretched hand. Then looks past Gerard, and sees Bob sitting reading a magazine, Mikey fast asleep beside him.

“What the fuck?” Frank takes another step forward, looking from Mikey to Bob. “Did you drug him?”

The question sounds hostile, Frank intends it to be, because he can’t see how Bob’s got Mikey to actually sleep without using drugs or some other kinds of physical means. He peers at Mikey, looking for new bruises.

“You know, you asked me to stay.” Bob sets down the magazine that he’s holding, and while his expression is blank the tone of his words are underpinned with anger. He starts to stand. “I didn’t drug him, I didn’t hit him, I didn’t do anything to hurt him and I’m sick of the assumptions that I have.”

“No, wait.” Gerard stands in front of Bob, stopping him from leaving the room. “It’s just. He hasn’t slept well for a while.

“Which is why we shouldn’t wake him,” Ray says. Pulling off his jacket, he hangs it on the back of the chair and then takes out his gun, checking the safety is on. When he’s sure that it is he sets it on a shelf in the main room of the diner and then looks back into the room. “Come in here, I’ll make dinner.”

“You cook?” Bob asks, and Gerard grins as he takes off his own jacket and throws it on top of Ray’s.

“He can open a tin and pour out water.”

“I’m an expert at that,” Ray adds, complete with a smile. “Come and eat with us, we can discuss that work I mentioned.”

Bob doesn’t look sure at first, then says, “Fine, but if I hear any threats about being poisoned I’m out of here.”

“No threats,” Gerard promises, and with last look at Mikey, heads for the other room, Bob following behind.

Which leaves Frank, but he doesn’t go with the others. Instead he stays in place, and when they’re alone kneels down next to Mikey. Who’s _fine_ , breathing easily, his head pillowed on his arm and a blanket pulled up to his chest. Frank pulls it a little higher, taking a moment to just touch. Because he’s not Gerard who’s stuck close to Mikey for days now, or Ray who’s been helping Mikey move to the bathroom. He’s just Frank, who’s missing his best friend.

“I can feel you staring.”

Startled, Frank sees that Mikey’s half opened his eyes, peering at Frank through his lashes. Frank tucks in the blanket, his gun digging into his side when he bends. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Mikey says. “I’m still asleep, and so should you be. Lie down with me.”

“So you’re sleep talking?” Frank asks, and Mikey nods as he wraps his hand around Frank’s arm and then pulls.

“I do my best talking when I’m asleep.” Mikey keeps hold, his fingers tight as Frank takes out his gun and lays it safely to one side before lying down, his body against Mikey’s.

“Hey,” Frank says, when they’re sharing the same pillow and he’s looking directly at Mikey, who’s looking right back. “I thought you were sleeping?”

“I woke up,” Mikey says, and he drapes his arm over Frank’s side, keeping him close. “Stay a while?”

So Frank does.

~*~*~*~*~

It’s early morning the next time Bob goes to the diner. He’s agreed to check over the engine of the Trans Am in return for a supply of batteries and kibble. It’s stuff he could get himself, but it’s just as easy doing it this way, plus, Bob likes working on engines, and truth is, he’s looking forward to getting his hands on the Trans Am, a car that’s almost as notorious as the Killjoys themselves.

Bob pulls to a stop, and for a moment sits still in his Jeep. This early the diner looks even more ramshackle than usual, the walls sandblasted and at points, seemingly held up by the wanted posters slapped over the weather-beaten boards.

If Bob didn’t know better he’d think the place was deserted, but as it is, he’s waiting for someone to appear, unsurprised when the boards over the door are pushed to one side and Jet Star emerges. Without his jacket and thigh holster he appears unfinished, softer somehow as he smiles at Bob over the rim of a metal mug from which he’s drinking.

“Morning.” Jet Star drains the contents of the mug and then shakes the remaining droplets to the sand. “Want breakfast? I’m making.”

Bob pops open the door of his Jeep and drops down to the ground. “I think I’ll pass.”

“You sure?” Jet Star says, and he moves out of the shadows and into full sun, his head tipped back and eyes closed. “I’m making oatmeal.”

Bob can’t remember the last time that he actually ate oatmeal, or even if he actually likes it at all. But it’s not kibble, that’s all that matters, and he says, “In that case. I’m in.”

“Smart choice.” Slowly, like what he really wants is to stay basking in the sun, Jet Star starts to walk back inside. “Come on, you can help me stir.”

Surprised, Bob asks, “You actually cook the stuff?” because it’s been months since he last ate something that wasn’t from out of a can.

“On the stove and everything,” Jet Star says, and when they’re both indoors, he indicates a small two ring hotplate that’s set on one of the counters. “Or on a burner anyway.”

Already there’s a pan set on one of the rings, while to the side are two small unmarked paper bags and a pile of bowls, spoons in a heap beside them. Jet Star hums under his breath as he wipes a cloth around the pan and looks toward the closed door to the other room. “They’ll wake up when they smell this cooking. Or pretend to anyway, the fuckers just like letting me do all the work.”

Jet Star picks up a bag as he’s talking, and pours some dried flakes into the pan, followed by what looks like a lot of sugar. Bob takes a step forward, says, “You’ve got sugar?”

“We get it in trade,” Jet Star says easily, like sugar isn’t one of the banned substances on the BLI/nd lists. It’s why it’s almost impossible to find, Bob knows, he’s tried often enough. He takes another step forward, watching as the tiny granules tumble into the pan. Jet Star stops pouring and grabs hold of Bob’s hand, holding it up and pouring a small amount of sugar onto his palm. “Enjoy.”

Before, Bob would have thought eating sugar like this was gross, now he licks it off his palm, enjoying the hit of sweetness that cuts through what’s usually a constant diet of bland. Ensuring he’s licked up it all, he runs his tongue over his palm one last time, says, “Thanks.”

Jet Star pours water into the pan and then holds out a large spoon, says, “Repay me by stirring.”

Right now the oatmeal looks disgusting, the water filmed and the sugar lumped at the bottom with the mystery dried flakes. Bob takes the spoon and gives the mixture a stir, trying to maintain an even expression.

Jet Star laughs as he fills a kettle with water from the barrel set close to the wall. “It gets better, promise.”

Bob isn’t so sure, but he’ll take Jet Star’s word for it. Especially as he’s setting the kettle on the other ring, and reaching for a tin painted with coffee beans, each one complete with a smiley face. Bob stops stirring. “You’ve got real coffee?”

Jet Star shakes the can. “Only on special occasions. This is instant.”

Which is fine by Bob, and he keeps stirring as Jet Star switches on the boom box that’s sitting on one of the counters, quiet music filling the air as he bustles around, gathering mugs and clearing piles of papers and pens from the table. It’s nice, domestic in a way that Bob approaches with Patrick, but never actually achieves all that often.

It also makes Bob think about the Killjoys, because while the wanted posters and rumors present stark facts and embellished tales, the reality adds another element. One where while the Killjoys obviously are dangerous, they’re also a family, and it’s that that intrigues Bob.

He’s got countless questions that he won’t ask, but one thing he can ask about is about Kobra Kid, he’s got that right at least. “How’s Kobra Kid?”

“Fucking annoying,” Jet Star replies, and nods approvingly when he sees Bob is still stirring. Then amends, “He’s okay, bored stupid mostly but the stitches look fine. You did a good job.”

“Wasn’t me that did them,” Bob says, the scent of sugar and coffee replaced by sense memories of blood and antiseptic, the feel of Kobra Kid’s slick skin as Bob held his legs still as Gabe patiently cleaned out and sewed up wounds.

“Yeah?” Jet Star doesn’t ask who actually did it. Just spoons coffee into five mugs and unexpectedly says, “I know Mikey told you his name, why don’t you use it?”

Thrown by the question, Bob tries to think what to say. He does know Kobra Kid’s real name, but using it feels wrong. In Bob’s head Kobra Kid is a wanted zone runner, the one whose face is on posters and ended up half dead in the desert, defiant and hostile at all times. Mikey is someone different, the man who clung to his friends when Bob brought him home, and the one who slept next to Bob, trusting him to keep guard.

If he’s honest with himself, Bob’s wary of getting to know Mikey, who from the flashes Bob’s seen, could be someone Bob would like as a friend. But friendship brings complications Bob isn’t sure that he wants, especially as he’s sure one would lead to three others.

He runs the spoon through the mixture that’s solidifying and turning into actual oatmeal, hedging as he says, “No one knows your names, I thought it slipped out by mistake.”

Jet Star shakes his head. “Mikey doesn’t make mistakes like that. And if it helps. Hi, I’m Ray.”

Bob looks at Jet Star’s outstretched hand, trying to decide what to do. He’s been able to push Kobra Kid’s real name to one side, but this is too deliberate, and Jet Star is right here, waiting. Bob has to make a decision, shake and take in the complications of potential friendship, or walk away, back to his already busy life.

This time all he can do is trust his gut instinct, and he holds out his own hand and shakes hands with Ray, says, “I’m Bob.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ray says, and his grip is firm, his smile warm. “If you can serve that up I’ll wake up those idiots.”

Bob reaches for a bowl, says, “On it.”

As he serves out the oatmeal he listens to the sound of Ray talking, then, eventually, someone talking low in reply. Bob’s not sure who it actually is, not Mikey he knows that, but it could be either Fun Ghoul or Party Poison. Whoever it is, they don’t talk for long, and Ray shakes his head when he comes out of the room.

“I swear, it’s like talking to a bunch of zombies.” Picking up two bowls he retraces his steps, says, “Put the other three on the table.”

Wondering who’s eating with Mikey, Bob puts three bowls of oatmeal on the table, and is going back for the coffee when he stops in place, seeing Fun Ghoul who’s standing in the doorway. He’s wearing pants and t-shirt only, the bottoms of the pants crumpled over his bare feet and his hair in snarled knots on one side of his head. Without the glare it would make Fun Ghoul appear almost child-like, but he is glaring, scowling at Bob as if all he wants to do is grab up his gun and blast Bob in the chest.

“I hear we’re trading real names,” Fun Ghoul states, his glare never wavering. “I don’t know you, but Ray trusts you and you brought Mikey home.”

Bob says nothing. Just waits, never looking away from the glare.

“If you ever use this against us I’ll gut you,” Fun Ghoul says, and then. “I’m Frank.”

“And I’m sick of being threatened,” Bob says, because it never seems to end. He glares back at Frank. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with your names? Send them to S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W who probably know them anyway? Or do you expect me to create a fucking song dedicated to you all and send it out on a transmission? Because you’re all zone runners, you live off the grid and hide out anyway. Your real names mean nothing.”

It’s half correct. While what Bob’s said is true he’s well aware that real names do mean something, just not to the authorities. Regretting not getting to eat his oatmeal first, he starts to go, when Frank slowly claps.

“Impressive, have you been storing that up?” Then he grins, his expression changing from surly to sunny in seconds. “If you do that song I’d better get a full verse mentioning my daring deeds and huge dick.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bob says, and blinks when Frank gives him thumbs up before grabbing a coffee and sitting down at the table.

Already eating, Frank says, “Sit down already, or I’m going to eat them all.”

He’s not kidding,” Ray says, appearing out of the bedroom. Grabbing two mugs of coffee he takes them into the other room and then comes back almost immediately, picking up his own mug. Holding it close, he sits next to Frank. “Seriously, eat before it gets cold.”

Taking Ray at his word, Bob sits, sliding along the bench until he’s opposite Frank. Keeping his feet back, Bob eats, surprised that the oatmeal tastes so good.

“Told you it gets better,” Ray says, as Frank scrapes the bottom of his bowl with his spoon.

“It tastes great,” Bob says through a mouthful of oatmeal which he washes down with hot coffee.

“The sugar’s the key,” Ray says, and then grins as he adds. “Add enough and it makes anything taste good.”

Frank shakes his head. “You added it to that scorpion stew and it tasted like shit.”

“You’re just holding a grudge that you got poisoned,” Ray says easily and sets down his own spoon in his empty bowl as he explains. “Frank ate part of the stinger, he had lips like pillows for days.”

Frank pokes Ray hard in the side. “I’m sure you put it in there on purpose.”

“Because I wanted to listen to you bitch for days,” Ray says, rolling his eyes, and then looks toward the bedroom at the sound of a soft knock. “I’m going to take in more coffee.” Sliding off the bench, Ray gathers empty bowls and then disappears into the other room, coming back in to fill two mugs. Holding them in his hands he looks toward Bob. “Want to see Mikey?”

It feels like a loaded question, and Bob isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. But he does want to see him, just to make sure he really is okay, and nods, says, “Sure.”

First though, he drains his coffee, putting the mug next to the empty bowls before following Frank and Ray into the other room. Where he sees Mikey is asleep, his head on Party Poison’s lap.

Bob starts to back out, because Party Poison is running his fingers through Mikey’s hair, the gesture so tender that Bob feels like he’s a voyeur to some intimate moment.

Party Poison looks up, his fingers still against Mikey’s head, and he says, “Stay.”

It’s not said as a command but Bob’s aware this is yet another test, and his skin prickles at the feeling of being watched. His every reaction monitored and stored as he tries to work out what he’s seeing, fitting it together with past pieces.

It’s a puzzle that’s starting to take shape, and Bob walks back into the room, looks down at Mikey and asks. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing good,” Party Poison says, “Fucking good,” and then, after he’s studied Bob’s expression, “Hi. I’m Gerard.”

~*~*~*~

“Ashlee’s been in contact, she’s coming in later today,” Patrick announces. He’s wearing his magnifying goggles and when he pushes them to the top of his head red marks are etched around his eyes. He pushes a pair of tweezers behind his ear and kicks out with one leg, his chair squeaking as he turns so he’s facing away from the circuit boards of an electro canon that are arranged on his desk.

“You finished the transmitter for her?” Bob asks, and hands Patrick a bag of water.

Patrick takes a long drink, then leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah.” Reaching behind him, Patrick picks up a pin of a bear head, its mouth wide and smiling. “It’s primed and ready.”

“Nice job,” Bob says, admiring Patrick’s work. Not that Patrick ever does bad work, he’s an expert in miniature electronics, and the perfect partner for Bob and his engines and machines.

Patrick accepts the compliment with a slight nod and then says, “You went out this morning.”

“I did.” Bob takes back the bag of water and takes a drink. Fastening the cap, he puts the bag to one side and starts to untie the bandanna that’s wrapped around his wrist, needing to push back his hair. “I went to see the Killjoys.”

Patrick looks directly at Bob, his mouth pursed, then says. “I hope you know what you’re doing?”

Bob could easily bullshit and say that he does. But Patrick deserves the truth, at least, the truth as far as Bob knows it himself. That while the Killjoys aren’t actual friends in the slightest, there’s something there that’s fascinating, and Bob wants to know more, despite his own reservations. He knots the bandanna at the back of his neck, says, “I’ve got no fucking idea.”

“I figured.” Patrick pulls the tweezers from behind his ear, and taps them against his hand. “I’m not going to say be careful, just remember who they are.”

“I know who _we_ are,” Bob says, because methods aside, what they do isn’t much different to the Killjoys themselves. “Knowing them won’t hurt what we do.”

“It’s not that I’m worried about,” Patrick says softly. “If they find out about your past...”

“They won’t,” Bob cuts in, and faces down Patrick. “I’m a different person now, no one knows about that.”

Patrick simply states, “I do.”

“Because I told you.” To Bob that’s an important distinction, Patrick does know about Bob’s past, but it was a story given on Bob’s terms, and only when he trusted Patrick completely. “They won’t find out.”

“You can’t know that,” Patrick says, his voice rising. “They’re not stupid; they’ll have checked you out. What happens if they wonder why you decided to make like a hermit and fix cars for a living?”

It’s nothing Bob hasn’t already thought of himself, but hearing it said out loud emphasizes the risk he already knows that he’s taking. The problem is, though, despite that risk Bob doesn’t think he can pull back -- not now.

Repeating reassurances he tells himself daily, Bob says, “S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W’s employee list is under deep encryption, and my picture was never taken.”

“That you know of,” Patrick says, and he indicates his computer. “It takes me all of a few minutes to hack into S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W’s records.”

“Not everyone’s a hacking genius extraordinaire.” While that’s true, it’s also nothing more than a deflect, and Bob knows it. It’s why he adds, “I’m the one that got away. They don’t like admitting employees can regain their conscience and free-will, especially unit leaders. Even if people ask, they won’t tell.”

“You hope they won’t tell.” Patrick’s mouth is pinched, and he taps his fingers against the arm of his chair. “You’re taking too many risks, what about the zone runners from back then? If one of those remembers you you’re history.”

“They won’t,” Bob says, sure even though it’s something he’s tried to forget, memories of the drones he commanded and the zone runners he ambushed resurfacing via both nightmares and stray thoughts. “None of them got out alive.”

Patrick barely flinches, already knowing this story. “It only takes one to escape. It happens.”

Which Bob’s well aware of; but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. “I’ll be careful.”

Patrick pulls down his goggles and turns, says, “I wish I could believe that.”

~*~*~*~

“If you don’t help me up I’m going to do it myself,” Mikey says, and making the point he begins to turn on his side, ignoring the pull of stitches in each leg.

Frank darts forward, and puts his hand on Mikey’s shoulder, keeping him in place. “Jesus fuck, stay still you idiot. I’ll help.”

If he wasn’t so frustrated Mikey would feel bad about pushing the issue, but he is frustrated and if he doesn’t get out of this room he’s going to go insane. He wants to get up and run, to ride his bike, even going outside would be okay, but no one will let him. Until now, when Gerard and Ray have gone on a routine patrol leaving Mikey and Frank behind.

“If you tear your stitches I’m not redoing them,” Frank says, and steps on the mattress and holds out his hands. Then he grins, his expression showing he’s on board with this escape even if his words say the opposite.

Mikey grasps hold, hanging on as Frank pulls him to his feet. It’s not the most pleasant of movements, and Mikey bites the inside of his cheek as he takes his weight on his knees, but Frank’s right there for support. Together, they walk off the mattress, Mikey more lurching than any actual steps. Not that he’s even tempted to try and bend his legs, not when it feels like his skin is being tugged apart at the seams.

“Where to?” Frank asks, and wraps his arm around Mikey’s waist, holding him steady. “You’ve the choice of the other room or going outside.”

It’s a no brainer question. It feels like Mikey hasn’t seen the sun for days and he grits his teeth and keeps moving, each step stumbling, but also loosening tight muscles, until finally, he’s outside, leaning against the wall as Frank brings out a chair.

Frank sets it next to Mikey and says, “Sit.”

Mikey does, getting himself as comfortable as he can be while wearing a pair of Gerard’s shorts and feeling more filthy than usual. Flexing his foot, he looks at the contrast of pale skin against bruising, black thread and scabbed grazes, so gross that it’s cool.

“They look like patchwork legs,” Mikey says, and he bows his head, enjoying the warmth of the sun. He can feel it against his back, warming his neck, and then Frank’s sitting on the ground next to Mikey, his shoulder against Mikey’s thigh.

Frank runs his finger just over one of the cuts, ending at the stitched knot that sticks out at the end. Then moves his hand, so he’s tracing the line of stitches the curl up Mikey’s thigh. “They look bad ass, and these two like letters.”

Frank’s got his head tilted to the side, his eyes slightly closed and Mikey twists, trying to see what Frank’s seeing. “Like letters? The fuck?”

“A G and S,” Frank says, and then shrugs. “Or just curves, who the fuck knows?”

Mikey reaches down, feeling for the place where Frank’s looking. He runs his fingers over the raised lines, feeling how they loop and curl, but can’t make out any actual letters. “You’re seeing things.”

“Probably.” Frank rests his head against Mikey’s side, still and silent. It’s a state he doesn’t achieve often, his life mostly lived at high speed. Easy laughter and constant motion a barrier against the anger and fear Frank fights to keep hidden.

Mikey rests his hand against Frank’s shoulder, and rolls the chain of his necklace under his thumb. “What happened when I was gone?”

It’s something Mikey’s been thinking about for days now, because he knows something did, he just isn’t sure what. Asking like this is something else that should make him feel guilty, but out of them all he knows he’ll get the answers from Frank. Because while in most cases Gerard withholds nothing, this time Mikey knows he won’t tell, not when it involves Mikey himself.

Frank keeps staring forward, says, “Gerard wasn’t taking it well. He was close to a solo assault on Battery City. I let him throw cans of kibble instead.”

It’s not a surprise. From the start Mikey and Gerard have been each other’s only constant, and even the thought of losing Gerard makes Mikey’s heart clench. So he knows it’ll be the same in return. The problem is, Gerard’s their leader, he can’t afford to lose control like that, and Mikey makes a vow that they’ll talk. Then there’s Frank, and Mikey curls his fingers around the back of Frank’s neck, keeping him close. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that,” Frank says, and it’s true, Mikey’s making promises there’s a chance he can’t honor.

Bending forward and twisting to the side, he slides his hand under Frank’s head, and tilts up his chin gently, enough that Mikey can brush a kiss against his mouth. “You’re right, I can’t, but I can promise that I’ll never go willingly.”

“Too fucking right you won’t,” Frank all but snarls in reply, and continues the kiss, his hand against the nape of Mikey’s neck, holding him down, his mouth against Frank’s, Mikey tasting dust and sand and the ever present background grit of kibble. Then pulls back slightly, says quietly, “You’re not allowed to leave us again.”

Mikey replies, “I’ll try.”

~*~*~*~

Ashlee’s one of Bob’s oldest contacts. Over time he’s become used to her arriving in the workshop, her outfit always perfect despite time spent riding the zones.

Today she pulls off her helmet and sets it on the seat of her bike, and then takes off her gloves, black leather to match the rest of her outfit. Ashlee’s hair is red right now, tied back in a long plait, a yellow ribbon threading through the strands. It’s a color that matches her nails, cut short and square and she smiles when she sees Bob approaching.

“Patrick tells me you’ve got yourself a pet zone runner.”

“Patrick’s a fucking gossip,” Bob says with a scowl. “And he needs to stop hiding IMs in with the codes.”

Ashlee slips her arm through Bob’s, her grin widening. “Nice deflection, but no dice. Tell me more.”

“Wentz is rubbing off on you, you never used to be this annoying,” Bob says, and winces when Ashlee nips at his forearm, hard. “There’s nothing _to_ tell.”

“So you haven’t been going to see them almost every day?” Ashlee asks sweetly.

“I’ve been working on their car,” Bob says, but doesn’t add how most times, even after he’s finished, he ends up staying a while. Usually with Mikey, who’s on his feet now but still not battle ready, but Bob’s getting used to them all hanging out, handing over tools and making coffee which they share while talking, in some of their cases, talking a lot.

“Working on their car, right.” Ashlee draws out the word and pats Bob’s hand. “But good for you, it’s about time you looked away from your engines.”

Bob steers them past the parts of Mikey’s bike that still litter the floor, heading for the back of the room where, as usual, Patrick’s working. “I told you, all I’m doing is working in trade.”

Ashlee smiles, not the bright beam of before but something smaller as she looks over at Bob. “They’re nice guys.”

“You know them?” Bob asks, because while he knows that Ashlee’s got contacts all over the zones he’d always thought they were the kind more like Patrick. The people who’re rebelling in the form of technology instead of outright conflict.

“Sort of.” Ashlee smiles at Patrick and perches on the edge of the counter, her legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. “They’ve got friends in the family camps, and Pete knows Kobra Kid.”

Which, of course he does. Someone as annoying as Pete _would_ know someone as surly as Mikey. But even as he thinks that Bob’s taking it back, the surly part at least. Pete’s still annoying. The family camp, though, that’s unexpected. “They’ve got people in the camps?”

Ashlee’s eyes are gleaming, her mouth twitching as if she’s aware of Bob’s deliberate change of focus. “They’ve got people _running_ the camps.”

Bob’s only visited the family camps a few times, driving there to drop off reconditioned vehicles and on one occasion, an actual mini tank for Lindsey. One she’d subsequently painted purple with red stripes -- not that Bob’s got any ground to stand on in terms of vehicle color.

Standing close to Ashlee, he thinks about Lindsey, her grin wide as she took control of the tank, and Jamia, guns on both thighs, waving from her tower on watch. When Bob thinks about it, it makes sense that they know the Killjoys, but what doesn’t make sense is how unsettled that makes Bob feel. Experienced in ignoring emotions, he reaches for the pin transmitter, setting it on his open palm.

Patrick turns toward Ashlee. “It’s got a range of three miles, after that atmospheric conditions are an issue.”

“That’s not a problem.” Suddenly all business, Ashlee peers at the pin, turning it around to check the back and running her thumb over the bear head. “I’ll be staying close when I hand it over.”

Bob doesn’t ask any details. While he knows Pete works from inside the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W ranks, the fewer people who know how and where the better. He does say, “Be careful,” and Ashlee nods and stands.

“We always are.” Clipping the pin on the lapel of her own jacket, she brushes a kiss against Bob’s cheek, and then does the same to Patrick. “I’ll be in touch at the usual time.”

Patrick nods, and Bob walks beside Ashlee as she heads for the door, passing the strewn parts of the bike once more.

Ashlee slows, says, “You’re putting it back together? I’d have thought using it for parts would be more practical?”

“It would be,” Bob admits, and truthfully, it would be easier too, even if Bob does like the challenge of making something so battered perfect once more. “But they need the bike.”

“And you’re going to fix it for them.” Unexpectedly, Ashlee wraps her arms around Bob, squeezing tight. “You’re a good man, Bob.”

Awkwardly, Bob pats her back, hating that he can feel himself blushing.

“But I have to go.” A last squeeze and Ashlee’s pulls away, turns and heads for her bike. Giving Bob a last wave before she puts on her helmet and drives away with a roar and a spray of sand.

~*~*~*~

Frank doesn’t ride the bikes when he’s out on business or some kind of trade, but today he’s traveling solo, and it makes sense to leave the Trans Am at the diner. Hunched over, he grips the handlebars tight, feeling the reassuring weight of his bag over his shoulder. The road stretches out before him, snaking into the distance and Frank puts his foot down and just drives.

He doesn’t know how fast he’s going, he doesn’t want to. All he wants is to go faster, asphalt under the wheels and thoughts shoved aside, the only thing that matters staying upright. Frank can feel the bike shake under him, road ready and steady, but always that millisecond away from a slip in concentration and disaster.

This is what Frank needs, what he craves. His eyes streaming and hair whipped back, the muscles of his arms tense as Frank opens his mouth wide, screaming out sounds that get caught in the wind and yanked from his mouth. Anger and fear expressed away from the others, in the way that Frank knows best.

When finally he slows Frank’s shaking, his hands aching and throat dry as he comes to a stop and slumps forward, arms crossed on the handlebars and forehead against warm metal. He takes a deep breath, the first one in days it seems, and finally looks up, trying to see where he’s stopped.

It’s one of the middle zones, and Frank could keep going and head toward home, or else change his direction and travel to find Bob. It’s something he’s been thinking about for days, and while there’s no reason Frank actually needs to do so, just, suddenly Bob’s always there. Frank wants to believe he’s a friend, but there’s that lingering hint of suspicion that Frank needs to confront.

Decision made, Frank starts to drive once again.

Actually finding Bob’s workshop is an exercise in frustration. Frank knows the general location, co-ordinates obtained from friends and contacts, but in this part of the zones there’s little to distinguish one place from another. There’s just sand, a lot of fucking sand crossed by barely there trails and Frank keeps searching due to sheer bloody-mindedness alone, until, finally he sees fresh tracks.

Hoping he’s going in the right direction, Frank follows them deeper into the desert until even the trails are left well behind. Where he is now there’s only more sand, piled in heaps and dotted with scrub, and the faint tire tracks that just keep on going.

Speed kept low, Frank squints against the sun, wipes his hand across his face and follows, the loose sand spraying against his legs and boots. Despite wanting water he doesn’t stop, just keeps watching the tracks until his eyes ache and he’s swallowing hard, trying to at least wet his mouth.

He slows even further when he finally sees a building. At first glance it’s small, a boxy square with a flat roof, the sides made of the same weather beaten boards as the diner. But the closer Frank looks the more he can see the building is deceptive, with rooms extending on the far side. There’s also another building off on its own, and as Frank approaches he sees Bob’s Jeep inside, unmistakable with its bright pink paintwork and battered panels.

Then Bob’s there himself, strolling around the corner, hand on his raygun that’s strapped to his thigh. There’s also someone else following, some stranger who’s glaring at Frank, his gun drawn and held steady.

Frank pulls to a stop and kills the engine, holding up his hands.

“It’s okay,” Bob says, and looks back at the stranger. “It’s Fun Ghoul.”

“I know,” the man says, but doesn’t drop his gun, just takes a step toward Frank. “What do you want?”

Frank stares back coolly, says, “I was in the area and decided to drop by.”

There’s silence then, the stranger and Bob communicating via scowled and blank looks alone. Frank wipes at his face and weighs up the possibility of being shot if he goes for his water. Right now it feels like a risk, but he still opens his bag, never looking away from Bob and the stranger.

“This is the third time, Bob,” the stranger says then, lowering his gun before stalking away.

Frank takes a drink of his tepid water, then another before offering the bag to Bob.

“I’m good.” Bob walks closer then, his expression guarded. “I know you weren’t in the area.”

“I could have been,” Frank says, and blatantly stares at Bob, taking in the small cuts on his fingers, the oil that smeared down the front of his shirt. He looks different here, more guarded somehow, and it’s like Frank’s seeing the Bob from before. Back in those first few visits to the diner when his every word and movement was measured and clipped.

“The others, Mikey, things are okay?” Momentarily concern shows through, and that more than anything reassures Frank. Not totally, he’s learned that complete trust is a hard fought thing, but enough that he swings himself off of the bike.

“They’re fine,” Frank says and pats his bag that’s filled with boxes and bottles. “I went to get supplies, figured I’d stop on the way back and make sure you’re not some Korse puppet.”

“And?” Bob asks. “Did I pass the test?”

“So far.” Frank walks past Bob, heading toward the corner and guessing the door is back there. “If I get inside and see a white suit I’ll still have to kill you.”

“Kobra Kid, Party Poison and now you.” Bob falls into step with Frank and gives him a look. “I just need to be threatened by Jet Star and I’ve got a full set.”

“Ray hasn’t threatened you yet?” Frank says. “He’s slipping.”

“Don’t worry, Mikey took up his slack,” Bob says, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “At length and creatively.”

“He’s a twisted, fucker,” Frank says fondly, flashing back to the scene when he left, Gerard and Mikey sprawled out together, magazines spread around them and Gerard slapping Mikey’s hand each time he went to scratch at his legs.

“That’s one way of saying it,” Bob says, and when they turn the corner he indicates a large area of packed down dirt around the front of the building, and huge doors pushed back exposing the inside. “My workshop. Feel free to check for white suits.”

“I intend to,” Frank says, feeling no guilt at all for admitting his mistrust. Attention caught by the vehicles inside, he steps from sunshine into shade and organized chaos. Blocks holding up stripped down cars and an engine hanging from the ceiling on chains, while at one side, the parts of a motorbike are spread out on the floor.

While they could be any parts of a bike, Frank knows that they’re not, and he’s pulled close. Needing to see.

“I picked them up along with Mikey,” Bob says, and stands over the seat and exhaust.

Frank crouches, and rests his hand against a blood splattered panel. It’s a reminder of how close they came to losing Mikey and while that’s nothing new -- what they do is dangerous, it always will be -- that reminder catches Frank’s breath.

Chest aching, he grabs onto a distraction and snarls, “I suppose you’re going to sell or trade it. Profit from him nearly dying.”

“No,” Bob says simply, and then, “I’m making coffee if you want some.”

He walks away, leaving Frank crouched down, his hand against metal and hearing the truth in Bob’s ‘no’. And while a single word isn’t a bond formed through years of friendship or through fighting back to back. Right now, it’s a start, and for Frank that’s enough.

~*~*~*~

Mikey’s got the blades of the scissors close to the first stitch when Gerard walks into the room.

“The fuck?” Gerard runs forward and onto his knees, grabbing for the scissors. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Frustrated, Mikey clenches his hand, keeping tight hold of the scissors. It’s already taken him almost ten minutes to psyche himself up to remove his own stitches, and now he has to start again. He pokes at a bare patch on his knee, where the skin is already starting to be pulled tight.

“They need to come out or they’re going to bed in.”

“Not by you,” Gerard says, looking horrified. “Are those even sterile? And how were you going to get the ones at the side? You’re not a fucking octopus.”

Truthfully Mikey hadn’t even thought about sterilizing the scissors, he’d just snatched them up, knowing he needed to get the stitches out today. Letting the scissors drop he crosses his arms across his chest and looks down. “I wish I was a fucking octopus, I’d chop off my legs and grow more.”

“Well you’re not,” Gerard says, and the lack of a rambling conversation about mutant octopi and regeneration shows Mikey that Gerard’s more rattled than he’s showing. Reaching for the scissors, Gerard sets them to one side, like he’s afraid Mikey’s going to snatch them up and start snipping. “Bob’ll be coming over later, he can do them then.”

That’s good enough for Mikey, and he looks up at Gerard. “And then I’ll go on patrol again.”

Gerard shakes his head. “Then you get to rest until I’m sure your fucking knee caps won’t drop out.”

It’s an expected reaction but Mikey’s ready with a compromise. “I can rest on the back seat of the Trans Am. And I don’t need to walk to hack.”

“I guess,” Gerard says, and in this moment there’s nothing Party Poison about him at all, just Gerard, and he folds himself down, his head on Mikey’s shoulder. “That’s if I ever let you out again.”

It’s the opening that Mikey’s been waiting for, but also one he doesn’t want to take. But he knows that he has to, his hand against Gerard’s, Mikey says, “You know I could die any day. I probably won’t live to be old.”

Immediately Gerard tenses, says, “That’s not going to happen, Mikey. I won’t let it.”

Since as long as he can remember Gerard’s been the center of Mikey’s world, the person he loves, admires and aspires to be. It’s why all Mikey wants to do is believe him, to take the easy option that says that Gerard never lies. But he can’t, because he knows it’s not true.

“You can’t stop it, none of us can.” Mikey’s got his own head resting against Gerard’s now, staring straight ahead. With Frank out for supplies and Ray meeting a contact the diner is quiet, the air thick with heat, sunshine striped across the floor, and this moment feels like a confessional. “And if that happens, you have to keep going.”

It takes Gerard a long time to reply, but Mikey gives him the space, knowing Gerard will be picking through his own thoughts. Then Gerard says, “I’ll try.”

It isn’t enough, it can’t be enough. Which is unfair because Mikey knows if Gerard ever goes down it’s more than likely Mikey will go right after. But Mikey’s not Gerard. Kobra Kid isn't Party Poison, and Mikey turns so he can look directly at Gerard and demands, “Promise me, Gee. Trying isn’t enough.”

Again Gerard hesitates, then hooks his little finger around Mikey’s and says softly, “I promise,” and Mikey’s aching, hating he’s the cause of such pain.

“And no throwing stuff at Frank,” Mikey adds. “I know your throwing arm sucks but he’s too important to risk.”

Gerard sighs and reverts to his previous position, head against Mikey’s shoulder. “No throwing either.”

Knowing Gerard’s word means everything, Mikey says, “Thank you.”

~*~*~*~*~

As soon as Frank leaves Patrick appears and slumps into one of the chairs next to the kitchen table. He rests his head on his hand, his eyes shadowed behind his glasses. “I’ve been in contact with Ashlee, things are going to schedule.”

Bob sits, and slides a mug of coffee in front of Patrick. “You need to get some sleep.”

Patrick wraps his hand around the mug, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Bob ignores the snapped reply. Patrick’s been up for nearly two days now, hacking and transferring codes under the eyes of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W tech bots. It’s no wonder he’s so irritable, and yet again Bob wishes he had the skills to actually help.

Instead, all he can do is ensure Patrick sleeps when he can, and keep up his own side of the operation. Right now that means little more than taking care of vehicle repairs, which is important, the same way as Bob’s knowledge of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W is important, but somehow that never seems enough.

“Sorry,” Patrick says then, and takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m tired and I’m worried about Ashlee and Pete.”

“And you’re going to bed,” Bob interrupts, and plucks the mug from Patrick’s hand. “I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

Patrick blinks and rubs at his eyes under his glasses, says, “What did Fun Ghoul want?”

It’s a question Bob’s been expecting, and he pauses before saying, “He wanted to check I wasn’t in with Korse.”

Patrick stills and then laughs, short and brittle. “I take it you checked out?”

“I’m still alive,” Bob says, and when Patrick stands, Bob does too, pushing Patrick gently in the small of his back. “Go. Sleep.”

“Going,” Patrick says, but then adds, “But I’m going to set the perimeter alarms, I know you’ll want to go see your pet zone runners later.”

Bob doesn’t even attempt a denial.

~~~~~

Pulling to a stop, Bob gets out of his Jeep and waits for someone to appear. Usually it doesn’t take long and though he’s never seen any evidence, Bob suspects the Killjoys have their own perimeter alarms. If they didn’t Bob would think that they’re insane, when you’re rebelling against authority you always keep watching, it’s just the way that it is.

Expecting Frank or Ray, Bob’s surprised to see it’s Gerard pushing aside the boards before stepping outside. He’s stripped down to one layer, pants and t-shirt, even his thigh holster missing, which would suggest napping or relaxing, but Gerard looks tense as he approaches.

“Mikey was going to take out his own stitches.”

“It’s probably time,” Bob says, unsure why Gerard looks so rattled. “Was there a problem?”

“Yes there’s a problem.” Hands emphasizing his words, Gerard stops in front of Bob, staring him down. “He was going to use _scissors_.”

Bob still doesn’t get it. In a world where the hospitals heal your body but sedate your mind, this is basic field first aid, something that Gerard would have had to have done before. “You’ve never taken a stitch out before?”

“Of course I have,” Gerard says, and tugs up his t-shirt, exposing a neat scar that slashes across his stomach. “Too many of the fucking things.”

Bob’s still no closer to understanding, and he forces his gaze away from Gerard’s stomach up to his face. “So let him do it, or you do it.”

Gerard lets his t-shirt drop, says, “And what happens if the scissors aren’t sterile enough? And the cuts get infected.”

“Nice positive attitude.” Bob takes note of how Gerard really does seem worried about the possibility. It’s another thing that shows just how close he is to his group of zone runners, and, taking a risk about mentioning anything personal, Bob says, “You really care about him.”

“Of course I do,” Gerard says, looking surprised. “He’s my brother.”

“Your brother,” Bob repeats, and thinks about Gerard and Mikey, picturing them together. “No one said.”

“Not many people know,” Gerard says, and effortlessly morphs from Gerard into Party Poison as he gives Bob a direct look. “It’s another thing they could use against us. So if you tell....”

“You’ll kill me, skin me alive, hack off my flesh and eat it for dinner, I know,” Bob says, and turns away from Gerard and leans over into the Jeep. There’s box on the passenger seat, filled with parts and tools that Bob needs, and he takes his time checking the contents as he thinks over this new information.

“They’ve tried it before,” Gerard says, and the steel of Party Poison is gone from his voice. “But Mikey fought his way out.”

Anger strikes, made sharp by the implications in Gerard’s sparse statement. Well aware of what goes on in the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W cells, all Bob wants to do is demand details, but he doesn’t, it’s not his place. Instead he picks up the box, keeping it cradled tight against his chest and heads for the Trans Am, planning to resume his modifications and lose himself in the engine. Something solid that he understands completely, unlike this fury he feels when he thinks about someone trying to hurt Mikey, or the ache in his chest as Gerard talks about his brother.

Now that Bob’s aware of the relationship he’s unsure how he’s missed it before. The longer he thinks the more facial similarities match up, but more than that. The obvious fondness in Gerard’s voice as he talks, his love for Mikey apparent in every word.

Not that it explains everything that Bob’s seen, and he asks, “The others, Frank and Ray. They’re your brothers too?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and starts to walk alongside Bob. “But in a spiritual way, we’re bonded against adversity, fighting back to back, raising our voices as one. They’re the most important people in my life and I’d give up my own for them.”

“So, not by blood?” Bob asks, seeking clarification. Really, he’s not sure why he even expected Gerard to give a straight answer.

“Just Mikey,” Gerard says, his grin wide. He takes the box from Bob, carrying it the remaining few feet to the Trans Am. “I’ll go tell Frank you’re here. He wanted to see how you worked over the fuel things and the spark whatever-the-fuck-they-are.”

The box thrust back into his arms, Bob takes hold and then sets it on the ground. Reaching inside he curls his fingers around a selection of sparkplugs, says, “He’s in luck, I’ve got the spark whatever-the-fuck-they-ares right here.”

~~~~~

Before, Frank knew little about engines. He’s learned through necessity, fixing on the fly and gaining knowledge through reading scavenged books and trial and error. Today he leans over the engine of the Trans Am, watching intently as Bob tightens a bolt.

His every movement is sure, confident as he explains each step, looking up occasionally to ensure Frank’s understanding. Which Frank does, mostly, when he’s not wondering about Bob.

He knows the basics -- Bob Bryar, works as a mechanic out of zone 6, rebellion sympathizer in theory, hardly ever seen in person -- researching him is one of the first things they did when Mikey was brought home. But after that there’s nothing, and Frank’s curious. Especially why Bob’s actually here, when their every Intel said he usually keeps hidden.

Frank pulls back a little, careful not to hit his head on the raised hood of the Trans Am, says, “So what’s your deal?”

Bob tightens the final bolt. Positioning the wrench, he twists his hand and says, “About what?”

Frank could say, about everything, but he settles for, “This traveling around shit, you’re what, some kind of mobile mechanic?”

“Sometimes,” Bob stands, his hand in the small of his back, says, “I’m getting old,” and then, “Mostly I work from the workshop.”

“With that other guy, the one with the scowl and hat?” Frank asks, remembering his own visit.

Bob shakes his head. “Patrick, and no. He’s not a mechanic.”

“Okay,” Frank says, and this feels like he’s pulling teeth to get actual answers. Except, after so long together there’s not a thing Frank doesn’t know about Ray, Mikey and Gerard, so this chase almost feels good. “So this Patrick’s your what? Friend, brother, accountant, boyfriend, mechanical fucktoy?”

“Mechanical fucktoy? Really?” Bob says, and picks up the water bag that’s been left in the shade of the Trans Am. He takes a long drink and offers the bag to Frank. “You think I look like the kind of person who’d have a mechanical fucktoy?”

“You’ve a hot pink Jeep,” Frank says, taking the bag. “Who the fuck knows what you like?”

Bob wipes his hand across his mouth. “The color of my Jeep has no relevance here.”

“It’s hot pink,” Frank says, unable to resist teasing. “Like those slutty dolls they used to sell back in the day.”

“You mean Barbies, and they’re not slutty.”

Frank knows Gerard wasn’t around a few seconds ago, still Frank’s not surprised to hear his comment. It’s like Gerard has an invisible radar that activates whenever Frank says something Gerard thinks is offensive. Frank looks over his shoulder, and sees Gerard approaching. “Fine, like those dolls with tiny waists and disproportionate tits.”

“Breasts,” Gerard says, and wanders close to Bob. “Or I guess you could say boobs.”

“How about he says nothing?” Bob suggests, looking pained. “I’m about done.”

“You’re the best.” Gerard gives a cursory look at the engine and then turns his attention to Bob’s Jeep. This late the setting sun is catching the paintwork, causing it to glow neon pink, a blazing shock of color against pale sand. “Don’t listen to Frank, I love that you’re so secure in your masculinity.”

“What?” Bob looks from Gerard to his Jeep. “The color isn’t some kind of statement. It was like that when I found it.”

Momentarily Gerard appears thrown, then he rallies. “In that case you won’t mind if I decorate it. Just a few touches to make you blend in.”

Face aching from suppressing his grin, Frank moves to stand next to Gerard and Bob, all three staring at the Jeep. “I think flowers would look good. Big ones.”

“Mutant flowers, yeah,” Gerard says, and he drops to his knees in front of the door, running his fingers over the panel, sketching in the clinging dust. “Or skeletons. _Dancing_ skeletons. With tentacles.”

“Sounds perfect to me,” Frank says, and when he looks to the side and sees Bob standing with his mouth slightly open, like he’s looking for words and failing, there’s no way that Frank can stop himself laughing.

~*~*~*~

Mikey feels exposed, the center of attention as Bob kneels on the mattress, the freshly sterilized scissors and tweezers in his hands.

“They’re cool now,” Bob says and Gerard nods, his chin digging into Mikey’s shoulder, as if that was the question he was about to ask.

Gerard’s sitting behind Mikey, his arms around Mikey’s waist while Frank’s sitting at Mikey’s side, Ray taking position as assistant to Bob. They’re all there for Mikey, ensuring his comfort as best that they can, and Mikey’s grateful, even if the attention is on the verge of being too much.

“Gabe’s good at what he does,” Bob says, and looks over at Mikey. “They’ll come out easily.”

Reassured by Bob’s confidence, Mikey still flinches at the feel of the scissors against his skin. Bob’s starting high on Mikey’s thigh and Mikey watches as he slides the blade under the first stitch, and quickly snips it in half. Using the tweezers, Bob grips one side of the stitch and tugs, pulling out the thread.

It feels weird rather than painful, at least right now, and Mikey settles back against Gerard and asks, “Who’s Gabe?”

Bob drops the stitch onto an old magazine and moves to the next one. “A friend. He’s a doctor, amongst other things. He helped fix you up.”

Mikey tries to remember seeing this Gabe, but the first days at Bob’s are hazy, more flashes of scenes than actual memories. “I can’t remember seeing him.”

“Not surprising, you were unconscious at the time.” Bob snips again, and Mikey feels a tug as another stitch is pulled free. “He saw you, though.”

“Well tell him he’s got a friend in the Killjoys,” Gerard says, his breath warm against Mikey’s ear.

Bob drops the stitch on the other and points the tweezers at Gerard. “I haul Mikey’s ass from the desert, put up with his shit for days, give him my pants, bring him home and get threatened for my trouble. Gabe stitches him up and is an instant friend? The fuck?”

“Gabe didn’t keep Mikey,” Frank says. “You did.”

“Not by choice,” Bob says, frowning as he starts on the next stitch.

“Whatever, it’s not like I wanted to be there either,” Mikey says, and winces when the stitch is pulled free. Reaching out, he goes to wipe up the droplet of blood that’s beading on his thigh, but Frank slaps at his hand as Ray steps forward with a clean cloth.

“I’ll do it,” Ray says, and gently dabs at the blood.

Bob looks over at Mikey, serious as he says, “Want me to get those mittens? Because I will.”

“Or I’ll get the fucking restraints,” Gerard says, and tightens his hold. “Don’t think that I won’t.”

Mikey knows that he will, it’s why he stays still, hands in tight fists as he fights against the urge to touch his legs, or stop Bob from moving relentlessly forward, the removal of the stitches more painful as they curve over bone.

Bob never asks if he should stop. If he had Mikey would have refused, but by the time Bob’s over his knee, Mikey’s drawing in quick breaths, his eyes tightly closed as Gerard murmurs meaningless words of comfort.

A last tug, and finally Bob announces, “Done, for this leg anyway.”

Mikey opens his eyes and looks at his leg, complete with fresh scars, each one red and inflamed. They’re not the first that he’s got, but they are the most extensive, and Mikey can’t look away from the raised lines that slash over his skin.

“They’ll settle down,” Bob says, and rests his hand briefly above Mikey’s knee.

Carefully, Ray wipes away the last trickles of blood. “They don’t look that bad.”

“They look fucking bad ass,” Frank says, his brash words at odds to his expression as he watches Mikey’s face.

“They’re part of you,” Gerard adds, and presses a kiss against Mikey’s neck. “That means they’re beautiful.”

Mikey knows that they’re not, and he turns his head, his cheek against Gerard’s, Frank’s finger tips against his own, Ray’s hands on Mikey’s leg. Taking comfort in offered lies.

~*~*~*~

The family camps are a protected secret within the zones. Their locations guarded but directions available to those genuinely in need.

Often those directions change, the camps moving when the authorities get too close. It’s not an ideal situation, but for many the camps have become home. Escapees from the city, second generation children, the battle scarred and weary. They’re all welcomed and kept safe.

While he doesn’t visit often, Bob enjoys the times that he does. Seeing a community forged through adversity is inspiring, and while no one in the camps actually goes out and fights in a physical way, their rebellion is constant and on-going.

Which is why Bob helps all that he can, and he nods at the guard as he drives into the camp, towing a van behind him.

“Bob, hey.” Lindsey runs forward and jumps, balancing on the side of the Jeep. She’s clinging onto the roll cage with one arm and leans in, kissing Bob’s cheek.

“Lindsey,” Bob says, and wipes at his face when he looks in the mirror and sees the lipstick kiss, bright red and gritty with sand. “I’ve got your van.”

Lindsey grins, “So I see, you’re a fucking superstar.”

Bob shrugs and keeps looking straight ahead, all too aware of how Lindsey’s skirt is catching the wind, fluttering up and exposing her thigh.

“God, you’re adorable,” Lindsey says with a laugh, and kisses Bob’s cheek again. “Damn zone runners getting to you before I could.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bob mutters, and pulls to a stop on the outskirts of the camp, where Lindsey’s mini tank is parked alongside the other vehicles. “You want it here?”

“Park it up next to Alicia,” Lindsey says, pointing to where someone’s legs are poking out from under a car. “And don’t think I didn’t see that deflection.”

“What deflection?” Bob asks, but Lindsey’s already jumped down, and is running over to the other car. Dropping to her knees she folds forward to talk to the person underneath.

Maneuvering the van into place, Bob kills the engine and steps out of his Jeep, heading for the back. A few minutes and he’s lowering the van down, the winch groaning as Bob takes a step back, and jumps when something grabs his ankle.

“Hey.”

Bob looks down and sees Alicia, grease on her forehead and hair pulled back in tight braids. Wiggling, she worms her way out from under the car and then stands.

“Sweet ride, you’ve tricked out the engine?”

“Power, handling and brakes,” Bob says, and pops the hood so Alicia can look inside. “And something extra. Watch.”

Leaving Alicia at the front of the van, Bob gets inside and starts the engine. Then, when he’s sure there’s no one behind them, he flicks a switch, causing flames to shoot out from hidden pipes.

Alicia’s eyes widen, and the air around her shimmers with drifting heat. “Holy fuck, you built in a flame thrower.”

“Figured it could come in useful,” Bob says, and turns off the engine, killing the flames. “It’s got its own dedicated fuel tank and will last for up to five minutes.”

“You’re an evil genius,” Lindsey says, sounding impressed. “I like that in a man.” She waits until Bob’s standing outside and links her arm with his. “Come on, to say thanks we’ve a stew with your name on it.”

Torn, Bob debates between the plus of food, that experience shows will be delicious, and spending time as the center of gossip. Not that he debates for long, and Bob allows himself to be dragged forward, keeping step with Lindsey as they head for the community kitchen,

Set in the center of camp, trestle tables and chairs are arranged in front of the tent that contains the actual kitchen. On each table there’s a lantern, the glass painted with brightly colored flowers.

“Linds, did them,” Alicia says as she disappears into the kitchen. Reappearing with two bowls full of stew she sets them on a table before going back inside.

Lindsey sits and kicks out the opposite chair with her foot. “Sit. Eat.”

Bob does so, taking the spoon out of his bowl and swallowing a mouthful of stew. As expected it tastes good, but he’s not sure what he’s actually eating. Not that he’s about to ask, sometimes it’s just best not to know.

“The stringy bits are cactus prickles,” Lindsey says, and blows on a spoonful of stew. “If you boil them enough they don’t jab your mouth.”

Bob takes another spoonful, says, “It’s good.”

“It’s Jamia’s recipe.” Alicia sits opposite Bob, her bowl of stew in front of her, but she’s making no attempt to eat. Just sits with her elbows on the table, showing the tide mark between her clean hands and dirty arms. “She sends it to certain zone runners you know. Fun Ghoul loves it.”

“Talking of,” Lindsey says with a grin, and Bob groans, knowing he’s about to be questioned. “Ashlee says, Pete says, Patrick says that you’re still spending a lot of time with them.”

“A _lot_ of time,” Alicia adds, like they’re some kind of in-sync double act there to drive Bob insane. “‘Fess up, you like them.”

Bob scoops up another spoonful of stew. “I wouldn’t go there if I didn’t.”

“True,” Lindsey says, as if she’s actually conceding the point, and then, “But it’s not like you have to go _every_ day.”

Bob’s spoon scrapes against the bowl as he snaps, “I do if I’ve a lot of work to do.”

Both Alicia and Lindsey laugh, and Bob’s tense, hating that he’s being mocked. About to make his excuses and leave, he stills when Alicia reaches out and rests her hand on Bob’s arm. “Sorry, we’re just teasing. They’re good guys.”

“Good to watch too,” Lindsey says. “There’s always _something_ to see.”

That there’s an implication in her statement is obvious, Bob’s just not sure what that implication actually is. He stares down at Alicia’s hand, at her reddened knuckles and short nails lined with grease. Remembering catching glimpses of stealth kisses, Mikey sleeping on Gerard’s lap, the way Frank hangs over Ray. Things that could be innocent but Bob suspects that they’re not. Still looking down he says, “They’re close. And not just Mikey and Gerard.”

“They are,” Lindsey replies, but this time there’s no accompanying laughter, and when Bob finally looks her way he sees that she’s staring right back. “If they told you that they’re brothers they trust you. Don’t lose your nerve now.”

The conversation’s gone from light-hearted to serious in seconds, and Bob’s struggling to keep up, despite suspecting he knows the answer, he asks, “For what?”

“For snatching some happiness in this god forsaken world,” Lindsey says, deadly serious. “I don’t know you well. I doubt anyone does, even Patrick. But I know engines aren’t a good substitute for human interaction.”

Bob lets his spoon clatter into the half empty bowl. “I talk to people.”

“Not enough.” Lindsey leans back in her chair, and while Bob can’t actually see, he thinks she’s got her hand on Alicia’s knee. “You can tell me to shut the fuck up, but when you drove here you were smiling. If you’ve something that’ll make you happy I say go for it.”

It’s good advice, Bob knows that, but there are also problems. “Okay, fine, I like going over there. I like _them_ but not like that. I’ve only known them for weeks.”

“We could all die tomorrow,” Alicia says, and she wraps one of her braids around her fingers. “Do it loud and do it now.”

“And open your eyes and understand what you’re actually seeing,” Lindsey says, and then, “Don’t fuck this up, Bob.”

Bob still isn’t sure that there’s actually anything he can fuck up, but he still nods and says, “Okay.”

~*~*~*~*~

The first time Frank ghosted a Drac he expected to feel sick, had stood over the smoking body and waited for the nausea to hit. Because that’s what’s supposed to happen when you kill someone, even if that person is only a mindless shell.

Frank hadn’t felt sick, has never felt sick, even years later, with so many kills under his belt he’s lost count. Mostly he feels a sense of acceptance, and deeper, in a place he doesn’t acknowledged often, satisfaction.

Each kills feels like another strike against a world that’s nothing but contrasts. Apathy and control, rebellion and danger. Frank’s suffered the former, and is riding the later, fear and loss replaced by movement and music, and if it wasn’t for the others Frank would be even more wild.

As it is, he still charges head first into danger, but now at least he has a reason for caution -- knowing he’s got people who’re always waiting, always have his back.

It’s something that makes him stronger. It’s also something fucking terrifying, and Frank’s always aware of what he could lose. It’s why he’s sitting outside now, on the hood of the Trans Am, heels on the bumper, staring into a darkness that’s rich with shadows and blurred shapes.

“Frank.”

Briefly light spills into the dark, long and bright and then abruptly cut off as Ray walks outside. There’s a thud as he lets the boards at the door swing back and then Ray’s sitting at Frank’s side, mirroring his position.

“There’s been another raid,” Ray says, his voice low, like even his words are carrying weight. “The Rats from zone two.”

How bad?” Frank asks, knowing that anything that makes Ray sound like this has to be bad.

Ray pulls in a sharp breath, says, “They got them all.”

Frank makes a tight fist and wants to punch the nearest hard surface. “That’s the fourth raid in as many days.”

“They’re planning something,” Ray says. He’s staring ahead, the wind catching his hair and t-shirt, the fabric rippling. “And it’ll involve us.”

“It always involves us,” Frank says. “Korse is fucking obsessed.”

Ray nods, and it’s so quiet that Frank can hear Ray swallow before he unexpectedly says, “If things go bad, remember you matter too.”

Frank turns toward Ray, says, “Don’t say that shit. It’s not going to happen.”

“It could happen.” Ray grabs hold of Frank’s arm, holding on so he can’t slide off of the hood. “And if it does. Keep them living, but don’t forget you.”

“I’m always good to myself,” Frank says, and his chest is tight as tries for a leer, one that Ray sees right through.

“And you’re better to them, especially when things get rough.” Ray rubs his thumb over Frank’s wrist. “Bob’s a good guy, he could help if it was needed.”

Frank agrees to an extent. He likes Bob and is starting to trust him too. But that’s different to what Ray’s saying he should do. Not that that’s ever going to happen, and Frank states, “It won’t be needed.”

“I hope you’re right,” Ray says.

Frank rests his head on Ray’s shoulder and listens to him breathe.

~*~*~*~*~

Despite understanding why he’s worried, Mikey’s on the verge of sneaking away while Gerard’s not looking. Mikey won’t, he’s not that cruel, but he is tempted, especially when Gerard’s incessantly pacing.

“You’ve got everything you need?” Gerard says, and retraces his steps. He stops in front of Mikey, his hands twitching before he reaches out, barely stopping himself from touching Mikey’s gun that’s already in his thigh-holster.

Patiently, Mikey repeats, “Yeah.”

Gerard’s frowning, his mouth pinched, and right now he’s unrecognizable as the person who stares from the wanted posters. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” Mikey says, and holds his hand behind his back, flipping Frank off when he snorts in response.

Mikey heads for the exit. It’s been too long since he’s been away from the diner, and even before that he was stuck bedridden at Bob’s. All Mikey wants to do is get on his bike and ride, or second best, ride shot gun in the Trans Am, music on the radio and the highway stretching for miles.

It’s something that the others are aware of, and even though Mikey knows this supply trip is nothing but an excuse to get him out on a soft run, he doesn’t care.

“Ready?” Frank asks, already in the driver’s seat as Mikey walks more slowly, the pull of still-healing scar tissue a reminder to take it easy.

“Days past ready,” Mikey says, lowering himself into the car. He looks over to the diner, and nods at Gerard and Ray, who’re both standing watching, then turns toward Frank. “Floor it.”

Frank grins, and does so, the Trans Am’s wheels spinning up dust as Mikey switches on the radio and turns up the volume. This escape into the desert needing a backdrop of music.

Hand braced against the door-frame, Mikey steadies himself as Frank turns a tight corner, bumping from a track to the actual highway. Momentarily the Trans Am is air-born, before crashing back down, the tires screeching as Frank straightens out without slowing.

“Showoff,” Mikey says with a grin that Frank mirrors right back.

“Jealousy is a sad thing,” Frank says, and his eyes gleam as he increases their speed even further. “Just because you wiped out.”

Mikey rests his arm along the edge of the open window, his sleeve puffing with air. He splays out his fingers, feeling the wind pressure against his palm. “I’ve done that once.”

“Once is enough,” Frank says, and he reaches to the side with one hand, briefly touching Mikey’s thigh. “Want to go faster?”

“Always,” Mikey says, his head hitting the headrest at the resulting surge of power.

“Bob’s made this baby purr,” Frank says, driving with one hand as he turns up the music. “And the speakers he added are fucking sweet.”

They’re also loud, the bass thumping and Mikey leans back in his seat, feeling the vibrations in his chest and stomach. It feels good to give himself over to something so base, when nothing else matters but sound and speed and the blur of the road.

It’s ten songs later that they finally slow, Frank steering for Rest Stop twenty-nine. It’s one of the smallest in this zone, a stark oasis of white and metal against a backdrop of sand and Mikey has never understood why it’s actually here. But he’s glad that it is, especially when it provides such easy pickings.

The sudden silence ringing, Mikey reaches into the foot-well, and picks up the vend hack from its position attached under the dash.

“This place is fucking creepy,” Frank says, getting out of the car. It’s his usual comment, one that Mikey agrees with. It always seems wrong to see the row of vending machines, each one bright and glossy when sense says they should be scarred by the elements and empty. They never are, and the back of Mikey’s neck prickles as he approaches the first machine, squinting against the reflected light.

The actual hack is second nature by now and Mikey stands in front of the machine, hitting each button in turn. Each time there’s a slight buzz, and he imagines tracks moving inside, the selected products falling with a clang.

Bending, Mikey starts to scoop out batteries, making a pile on the packed down dirt.

“You’d better get more kibble cans,” Frank says, and starts to gather up the batteries. “Our stocks are low.”

Mikey grimaces but still moves to the next machine. “We could tell Gerard there was none.”

“He wouldn’t believe you,” Frank says from where he’s putting the stash of batteries in the trunk of the Trans Am. “And it’s not _that_ bad.”

Mikey glares at the can that drops with a clatter. “It tastes fucking rancid, and smells worse.”

“Not as bad as some things in the diner,” Frank says, and even though Mikey can’t see his face he knows that Frank’s grinning.

“You’re no bed of roses yourself,” Mikey says, and bends, going to grab for the can. Which is when he sees the Drac.

It’s running around the side of a dune, slipping in the sand, and Mikey knows others will be close behind. It’s what they do, attack in packs, and in this case they’ve obviously been lying in wait.

The Drac brings up its gun about to fire.

Mikey yells, “Down!” and draws his own gun, firing as he leaps forward. Landing hard, Mikey rolls until he’s against the wheels of the Trans Am, looking under it to where the Drac is lying on the ground, its chest blackened and plastic mask pulled up slightly, exposing a pale neck.

“The fuck did that come from?” Frank says, his own gun drawn.

Mikey pushes himself up onto his side, and then upright, poised and waiting for the next Drac to appear. His legs throbbing, he leans against the bumper, says, “I think it was waiting.”

“Fucking bastards, changing their tactics.” Frank holds his gun steady, watching for more Dracs. “Make a run for it or wait to attack?”

The sensible option is to go while they can, but all Mikey wants to do is wait and burn through adrenalin and let out Kobra Kid, someone who’s been suppressed for too long.

He looks over at Frank and says, “Stay.”

Frank grins in reply.

~*~*~*~

“Of all the stupid, fucking idiotic things to do,” Gerard yells, and all but slams the first aid kit onto the table. “Did you even think what could happen? It was fucking stupid.”

“You’ve said that already,” Frank says, and bites at the inside of his cheek as he peels fabric from the burn on his chest. It comes away in damp pieces, scraps of t-shirt and skin fused together. “And Mikey’s fine.”

Gerard crowds onto the bench with Frank, and sits to the side, his knee pressed against Frank’s. “I know he’s fine.” And then, all anger suddenly spent, Gerard says quietly, “But you’re not.”

Frank makes an aborted shrug. “It’s a minor burn, we’ve all had worse.”

Gently, Gerard rests his hand under the burn, his fingers over Frank’s heart. “A change in angle and it would have been a kill shot.”

“But it wasn’t,” Frank says, and he slumps back, his eyes half closed. “Things are changing, Gerard. Those fucker’s knew we were there.”

“And we’ll find out how,” Gerard says, and pulls the kit toward him. Opening it up he takes out packets of antiseptic wipes and a tube of balm. One of the few left inside. “We need to restock, and while I’m in the city I’ll ask around. See if anyone else has noticed a change.”

Frank opens his eyes fully, says, “I’ll go with you.”

“Okay,” Gerard says, and tears at the packet with his teeth. Taking out the wipe, he carefully cleans the burn, then swaps the wipe for the salve.

Unable to help himself, Frank flinches at the first touch of the cool gel, but as always, that initial sting soon turns to relief. Pain dulling he uncurls his hands and takes a deep breath. “Thanks.”

There’s a rustle, Gerard crumpling up packets, and then, “You could have died today.”

Frank’s tired, but pushes himself upright, turns to Gerard and repeats, “We didn’t.” To emphasize that, Frank curls his hand around the back of Gerard’s head and pulls, until their mouths are brushing together. “Not today.”

It’s Gerard that closes the distance, and his lips are dry, the kiss almost hesitant, like Gerard’s holding himself back. Which isn’t what Frank wants at all. Gerard’s hair tangled in his fingers, Frank deepens the kiss, his eyes closing as Gerard scrapes his fingernails over Frank’s bare back.

He stops at Frank’s shoulder blades, hands two warm spots, holding Frank close. Then Gerard pulls back, says, “Come to bed with me.”

It’s not a question, and even if it was, Frank would have said yes.

~*~*~*~

If there’s one thing Bob knows, it’s that it’s impossible to predict the weather. Some people try, using science or the ache of their bones. But the truth is, conditions change so rapidly it’s usually a lost cause. Bob’s thankful if he gets any warning at all before the acid rain hits, or a tornado cuts through the desert. This time he gets nothing.

On his way home, he looks toward the horizon when the light changes, early evening gold dimming with each second. It’s a dust storm, one of the big ones, rolling forward rapidly and turning the sky black. Bob swears and makes a tight turn.

He’s about five minutes from the diner, but there’s a good chance Bob won’t make it in time. Already he’s coughing, and drags his bandana over his mouth, hoping to filter out the dust that’s thickening the air.

It helps, a little, but Bob’s eyes are streaming and he has to consider other options. Whether it would be better to stop and huddle in the back of the Jeep, hoping the cloud isn’t as big as it seems. Except this dust storm is huge, Bob can feel it, and already the sun is hidden, night sudden and cloying.

The only thing he can do is keep driving, foot to the floor and his nose and mouth covered, in a race made deadly by dust.

It’s a race Bob barely wins. By the time he reaches the diner his exposed arms are stinging and he wheezes as he screeches to a halt and jumps out of his Jeep. Hunched against the wind, Bob covers his eyes with his hand and forces himself forward, pressing himself against the wall when he finally reaches the door.

Bob knocks, hard, and he rests his forehead against the rough planks and cups his hands around his face, trying to create a space where he can actually breathe.

Finally, when Bob’s lungs are aching and his throat feels bone dry, the planks that cover the door are pulled to one side, and Ray reaches out, grabbing hold of Bob’s arm.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

Bob all but collapses inside, remaining upright due to Ray’s hold alone. Tugging down his bandana he hacks up dust, spitting into his own hand.

“Use this.”

Frank appears and hands over a crumpled piece of material. Bob takes it, wiping down his hand and mouth as he takes in a shuddering breath. “Thanks.”

Frank doesn’t stick around to reply and Bob bends forward, his hands on his knees as Ray says, “He’s dust proofing the window. Mikey and Gerard are doing the back.”

While he’s talking Ray picks up a t-shirt and starts jamming it in the gap at the bottom of the door. As a barrier it’s effective, and Bob rubs at his eyes and straightens, noticing that throughout the room clothes have been used to plug gaps.

“It looks like a rainbow exploded in here,” Bob says, his voice rasping as he takes in the yellow t-shirt wedged in the space between two boards and a line of bandanas that circle the closed off window. Then, being wedged in the top of the door. “Are those my pants?”

“The ones you gave Mikey, yeah,” Ray says, and keeps on forcing the leg into a gap.

Technically the pants had never been actually given to Mikey, but Bob doesn’t care, especially when finally he can breathe clean air. Outside the wind is still howling and Bob runs his hand through his hair, feeling how it’s gritty and coated.

“Nearly done,” Ray says, and he’s stretching, his t-shirt pulled up and exposing his lower back. “You should go get a drink.”

A drink is exactly what Bob needs, and he drags his attention away from Ray. “There’s nothing I can help with?”

“I think we’re good,” Ray says, studying the door. “Now all we can do is wait it out.”

It’s not something that Bob’s looking forward to. He’s been trapped indoors by dust storms before and each time has ended up stir crazy. The only difference this time is instead of just Patrick, he’ll be spending the time with four others, and Bob heads for the kitchen and pours water into a mug. Taking a long drink, he watches as Frank jumps down from a chair that he’s got pushed close to the window.

“Dust storms fucking suck,” Frank announces, and kicks at the chair, sending it clattering across the floor. “Suffocation outside, terminal boredom inside.”

Bob has to agree, but Gerard doesn’t seem to. Appearing from the bedroom he wraps his arms around Frank from behind and squeezes, says, “We’ll keep you entertained.”

“You’d better,” Frank announces, but looks slightly mollified as he heads toward Bob, Gerard still clinging on. “You’re making dinner?”

Bob sets down the mug and gives Frank a look. “I nearly died and you expect me to make dinner?”

“Yes?” Frank says, and brings up his hands, resting them over Gerard’s arms. “You know where stuff is, and you can’t be a worse cook than Mikey.”

While Bob doesn’t actually mind making dinner, he does have one last protest to make. “I’m a guest.”

Gerard grins and shakes his head, says, “No. You’re really not.”

It’s a good thing to hear. Bob hasn’t known the Killjoys long, but already they feel like friends, even though sometimes Bob can’t figure them out at all. Like now, when Gerard is all but nuzzling Frank’s neck, and Bob doesn’t know if he’s sending some message or just being the Gerard version of friendly.

Unsure, Bob turns his attention to supplies, or else, lack of them, considering the only things on the counter are a few dented cans of kibble and half a loaf of bread. Bob taps the loaf, which feels dry and hard. “This is all you’ve got?”

“Mikey and Frank had a bit of trouble on their shopping trip,” Ray says.

Concerned, Bob looks at Frank and then toward the bedroom. “You’re okay?”

Frank tugs at the neck of his t-shirt, exposing a fresh burn. “I got winged, Mikey’s fine. He kicked Drac ass.”

“Good,” Bob says, relieved when Mikey comes into the room, showing that he actually is fine. But there’s still one thing Bob doesn’t understand. “How did you end up in a fire fight?”

Mikey jumps up and sits on the counter close to Bob. “The fucker’s ambushed us at Rest Stop twenty-nine. We think they were waiting.”

It’s not the usual tactic, the Dracs orders always to swarm and attack instead of sneakily waiting, but this is the second time Bob’s heard of them ambushing in recent days. “They did that in zone two, someone got ghosted.”

“Yeah?” Ray asks. “We hadn’t heard that.”

Aware he’s said something he probably shouldn’t have, Bob tries to think of a way to explain how the person ghosted was a tech rebel without giving away his own, and especially Patrick’s involvement in the movement.

“Was it someone you knew?” Gerard asks and he’s moved to stand between Mikey’s legs, taking Frank with him. All three are looking over at Bob, waiting as he tries to think of how to say while Bob hadn’t known him, Patrick had, as part of the tech rebellion.

In the end Bob says, “Not personally,” and hopes that’s enough.

Thankfully, despite Gerard’s considering look, it seems that it is and Bob picks up a can of kibble and announces, “I’m making kibble on uncooked toast for dinner.”

Mikey’s resting his chin on the top of Gerard’s head, says, “You’re a fucking culinary genius.”

“You know it,” Bob says in reply.

~~~~~~

Being in such close quarters with the Killjoys is strange. Bob isn’t under any kind of illusions that he’s been accepted into their inner circle. The beginning of a friendship sure, but nothing intimate, so being here now is like he’s been given access to parts of their life that very few people see.

He’s always been aware that they’re touchy-feely, that was apparent from the first time he saw them, but how much is a surprise. Sitting on the floor, back against the wall he listens to the wind howl outside, and watches the others interact. It’s like they’re all magnets, pulled together always. Frank swaying close to Mikey as they talk. Gerard trailing his fingers across Ray’s shoulders as he walks past.

It’s like they need to be together always, and there’s part of Bob that feels left out. It’s an illogical feeling, he’s aware of that, but it’s a feeling of isolation that remains, as Mikey and Gerard sit together to read from the same magazine, or when Frank launches himself at Ray’s back.

“I think I need to go to bed,” Frank says, his arms wrapped tightly around Ray’s neck and his toes brushing the ground. “Take me there.”

“You’ve got legs,” Ray says, but he’s already heading toward the bedroom. “We might as well, this isn’t going to end any time soon.”

He’s right, the wind hasn’t eased for hours now and the patter of sand being flung against the diner walls is a constant background sound. Wishing he’d worn his jacket, Bob looks around the room, checking for the warmest and most comfortable spot to sleep.

Considering if he’d fit on the benches of the booth, Bob stands, and heads in that direction, but stops when Gerard says, “You can sleep with us. There’s room.”

It’s an invitation Bob wasn’t expecting, but he’s seen where they sleep and knows there _is_ room. Telling himself that Gerard is just being a good friend, Bob changes direction, trailing after the others. Then stands, feeling awkward as he runs through the etiquette of sleeping so close to people he doesn’t intimately know.

Not that it seems to worry Frank. Already he’s kicked off his boots and is shimmying out of his pants and t-shirt, throwing them onto the chair before stepping onto the mattresses. Throwing himself down, he sprawls out in boxer briefs alone, giving Bob the perfect chance to stare at Frank’s ink, taking in the designs that usually remain hidden.

In comparison to Frank, Mikey’s undressing more slowly. Unlacing his boots he takes them off, and then unfastens his belt. Hands on the buckle he hesitates a moment, glancing over at Bob.

Frank holds up a small tube of some kind of gel. “Come here already.”

Bob looks from the tube to Mikey, who gives him an unimpressed look right back. “It’s stuff for my legs.” In one abrupt movement Mikey pushes down his pants, exposing the angry scars that run from thigh to shin. “It’s supposed to help with the scars.”

“It is helping with the scars,” Gerard corrects, and he bends forward, his hair falling into his face as he starts to unfasten his boots.

“Fine, is helping.” In t-shirt and boxer briefs, Mikey walks over to Frank and folds himself down. Lying flat, his arms at his side, Mikey curls his toes, flexing them as Frank sits and squirts gel on his fingers.

It shouldn’t be hot, but Bob’s transfixed by how careful Frank’s being, the contrast between skin tones where Frank’s knees are against Mikey’s legs, the way that Frank slicks the gel over the scars and at one point keeps going, sliding his fingers over Mikey’s inner thigh, where the skin is pale and perfect.

Mostly though, what Bob sees is their expressions, Mikey’s total trust and the way he momentarily smiles when Frank bends forward and brushes a kiss against Mikey’s right knee.

“Freak,” Mikey says, and Bob expects Frank to grin or tease in reply.

He doesn’t. Instead Frank caps the gel, looks directly at Mikey and simply says, “You know it.”

“Frank does that every night,” Gerard says then, and Bob turns, and sees that Gerard’s watching Bob, and not Frank and Mikey.

Flustered at being caught watching, and unsure if Gerard means Frank putting on the gel, or the kiss, or both, Bob goes for the safe option, “They’re healing well.”

“They are,” Gerard says, sounding pleased. Wiggling out of his pants he kicks them to one side and goes to lie next to Frank, taking the space at the edge of the mattress and nearest the door. Which leaves Ray, who lights a battery powered lamp before turning off the main light.

Hanging the lamp on a hook over the mattresses, Ray’s still wearing his clothes when he settles down next to Mikey, and then indicates the space left beside him. “Come and lie down here. We don’t bite.”

There’s a muffled response, so low and garbled that Bob isn’t sure who said what, but Gerard’s laughing and Mikey rolls his eyes as Frank grins.

It’s a scene that emphasize Bob’s isolation even more. He doesn’t know the joke and even taking off his boots feels weird as he sits on the mattress and lies down. Perched on the very edge Bob tries to get comfortable, and tries not to shiver.

It’s an attempt that fails, and Ray holds up the blanket, says, “Get under.”

It means Bob has to get closer, but it’s either that or freeze. Sliding over a little, he lets Ray drape the blanket over his shoulder and lies on his side, careful not to fall against Ray.

For a while the only sound is the wind and pattering sand, and then Frank sighs, says, “I hate fucking dust storms.”

Lying where he is, Bob can’t see much past Ray, who’s flat on his back, his hair spread out on the thin pillow. Then Gerard comes into view, the blankets and mattress moving before he drops back down and says, “We know. Go to sleep. It’ll be gone in the morning.”

“You wish,” Frank says, sounding disgusted. “Last time we were stuck here for days. I was minutes away from eating Ray’s leg.”

Ray sighs, long and suffering. “Not this again.”

“Yes this.” The blankets move again as Frank props himself up on his elbow so he can look over at Ray. “You’re only bitching because you always get eaten first.”

“No,” Ray says. “I bitch because we always end up having this conversation, _and_ that I always get eaten first.” He turns, looking at Bob. “Can you believe that? Every time it’s me.”

“Because you’re the best choice,” Frank says, using his hands to emphasize his words. “Your thighs are perfect for roasting.”

“Every time,” Ray says softly, then, louder. “Every time it’s my thighs”

Frank pushes himself up even further and looks past Mikey and Ray to Bob. “I bet Bob would eat your thighs.”

“Depends how they were cooked,” Bob says, barely believing that he’s actually taking part in this conversation. “Do they stay on the bone?”

“Of course,” Frank says, as if any other method of cooking is insane. Sprawling across Mikey, he jabs a finger at Ray’s thigh. “See. It has to be you.”

“Yours could work too.” The words blurt out without Bob thinking, because, seriously, he’s going to carry this conversation on? But apparently he is, especially when Ray turns his head and grins, urging Bob on. “I get why you’d say no to Mikey, not unless you just wanted a snack, but you’ve got flesh on your bones.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?” Frank asks, and nips the flesh of his side between two of his fingers.

Frank doesn’t sound annoyed, or look it either, but Bob’s still finding his footing in these interactions, and he’s unsure how to reply until Mikey says, “We can’t eat Frank, he tastes funny.”

Bob doesn’t want to know, he really doesn’t, and yet he finds himself asking, “Funny like what?”

“Like steel, sunshine and fucking awesomeness,” Frank announces, and drapes himself fully over Mikey’s upper body.

Mikey makes no attempt to throw him off, just pushes Frank’s hair to one side where it’s fallen in his face and says, “More like cabbage and vinegar. Like asparagus.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gerard says enthusiastically, the only part of him visible a shock of red hair over the top of Frank’s body. “Like when you eat too many of them and your pee turns green and asparagussy.”

“I don’t think it actually went green,” Ray says, and lies on his back, looking thoughtful. “But the smell and taste, yeah.”

It’s an opening Bob isn’t going to touch by asking questions, but he can’t stop his imagination filling with the mental image of Ray sucking Frank’s cock. Which has to be what they’re implying. That or drinking each other’s pee, which wouldn’t surprise Bob either. Focusing on that, and not how Ray’s mouth would look, or the noises Frank would make, Bob shifts in place slightly, pulling up his legs and lying on his side.

“I miss vegetables,” Frank says, still lying heavily on Mikey. “The kind you dig up from the ground. Not that processed fake shit in tins.”

Mikey brings up his hand and rests it on Frank’s back. “I’ve heard there’s a consignment leaving the agro pods soon, corn and tomatoes.”

Frank smacks his lips. “Then we’ll have to intercept at some point. We haven’t had tomatoes in forever.”

Neither has Bob, but mostly what he wants to know is, “How do you even know that?”

“I talked to some people,” Mikey says with a shrug, as if he’s told top secret agro trade routes and schedules every day.

“It’s his secret power,” Gerard says, and the curve of his smile is just visible as he looks at Bob over the top of Frank. “That and getting into trouble.”

“He’s good at that,” Ray says, and then yawns, his hand over his mouth as outside the wind howls.

~~~~~~~

Bob’s unsure what’s woken him up.

Snuggled up in the blanket, his cheek pressed against the mattress, he lies still and listens.

At first he hears nothing unusual. The sand still being flung against the walls, the creak of boards moving as they’re battered by wind. Then, something different, a sound so soft and formless that at first it’s almost lost under the others.

Without moving his head or body, Bob opens his eyes, and tries to make sense of blurred lines and shadows. Slowly they form into actual figures, and Bob’s breathing shallowly, his heart speeding as he sees that Ray’s rolled onto his side, and has pushed himself up on one elbow.

He’s also taken off his t-shirt, and in the dim light his back looks pale, the shadows under his shoulder blades moving as he leans further to the side. From where he’s lying Bob can’t see what Ray’s actually doing, but he can hear the sounds, a breathy gasp and a murmured command to shush.

More than anything Bob wants to see who’s talking, and what Ray’s doing that provokes those sounds. But Bob can’t, and he wills himself still, his skin prickling at a cut-off moan, then Frank’s hand appearing against Ray’s back, the ink on his fingers stark and black against pale skin as he clenches his hand, his fingernails digging in.

“Quiet.” The soft command is unmistakably Gerard, and with his vision curtailed, to Bob each sound is magnified, the brush of material, the wet sound of kissing, Mikey drawing out the name, _Gee_.

It’s frustrating and confusing and Bob feels like the biggest pervert ever because all he wants to do is see more. He tries to move stealthily, but it’s impossible without giving away his intent, and right now Bob’s nowhere near being ready to announce he wants to see Gerard kissing his brother.

Resigned, Bob tries to slow his own breathing, concentrating on that sound and not what’s happening beside him.

It doesn’t work, Bob never expected it would.

~*~*~*~

It feels like Frank’s been caged up forever. The magazine he’s been trying to read is lying abandoned on his lap, the pages crumpled and the loops of letters already filled in with black.

Frank’s whole body is itchy, like the energy inside is trying to burst out. Which is bullshit, because Frank’s more than capable of of spending time inside. It’s just. It’s different when he has to, and the knowledge that he _can’t_ leave is driving him insane.

Swiping the magazine to the ground, Frank stands, the floor boards creaking as he paces. Nothing has changed since the last time he circuited the two rooms. Mikey’s still napping, Gerard’s still sketching, while Bob and Ray have a CB radio dismantled between them, the parts strewn out over the table.

“I’m going fucking crazy,” Frank says yet again. Normally being trapped inside isn’t this bad, but Bob’s presence is a constant barrier to letting off steam. Which is enough to build resentment and Frank leaves the room before he says something he’ll regret, and dramatically throws himself onto the mattress next to Mikey.

Eyes closed, Mikey says, “I’m sleeping.”

“I don’t care.” Frank stretches out and stares up at the ceiling. “I want to fuck you, or suck you, or watch Gerard and Ray do it to you. Or you could fuck me, or Ray, or both of you to-fucking-gether.” Volume rising, Frank pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes, matching memories to each word as he snarls, “Ray shouldn’t have let him in.”

“You don’t mean that.” Mikey sounds sure, and he’s right. Frank doesn’t, but that doesn’t help when he’s strung out so tight that he’s barely keeping it together. Mikey uncurls, and rolls so he’s lying closer to Frank, his voice low as he says, “Bob being here doesn’t have to stop that.”

“Yeah, it does.” It’s an immediate reaction, because already Bob’s seeing more than most people. Showing more is allowing a trust Frank’s not ready for and he doesn’t understand why Mikey’s willing to take the risk. “We don’t know him.”

“We didn’t know you at first or Ray,” Mikey points out, and he’s moved even closer, so his face is against Frank’s neck. “I’ve a good feeling about him.”

“You’ve a good feeling about everyone.” Frank keeps staring up at the ceiling, Mikey’s breath warm against his neck. “Every fucking waif and stray in the zones.”

“Not all of them,” Mikey says easily, and then, “I’ve never been wrong yet.”

“Yeah?” Frank says, “What about Pete? He fucked off and left.” As soon as he says the words Frank feels bad, hating himself for allowing his frustration to fuel his bad temper. He turns his head, says, “Sorry.”

“Pete’s a good guy,” Mikey says, like he always says, his belief in Pete unwavering despite him taking off one day and never coming back. “And so’s Bob. Give him a chance.”

Frank can’t think of a reason to say no. But he does have one reservation. “No sex stuff yet. It’s too soon.”

“Fine,” Mikey says, and stays in place, his breathing slow and heavy. “I guess you can fuck me later.”

Frank sighs, and knows it’s going to be a long day.

~~~~~

“For fuck’s sake,” Bob snaps, and sucks his finger into his mouth, licking away the droplet of blood. His fingertip is throbbing from where he’s caught it against a sharp corner and he scowls as he checks the fitting, feeling stupid at making such a remedial mistake.

Efficiently, Ray gathers up the innards of the CB radio, and pushes them to one side. Elbows on the table and chin resting on his linked hands he says, “They’re a bit hard to take like this.”

Unsure what Ray means, Bob settles back against the bench and takes his finger out of his mouth, says, “I don’t....”

“Gerard and Mikey.” Ray hesitates, as if thinking what to say. “When they’re together they’re like, them squared. When I first arrived it took a while to understand that.”

“Okay,” Bob says slowly, still not understanding completely. “And you’re telling me this because?”

Ray’s forehead is creased, and he looks from Bob to Gerard. “Because they love each other. That’s all.”

It takes a moment for Bob to catch on, then his cheeks burn, and he wants nothing more than to get up and go, choking dust be damned. That’s not an option, and Bob stares down at the table top as he says, “I’m not judging.”

“Right.” Ray clears his throat and glances back at Gerard, who’s still crouched over his drawing and taking no notice of anything going on around him. “I just thought. You’re so jumpy and I guessed you’d seen some things and …”

Attention fixed on the radio, Bob imagines fixing wires and tightening screws, anything but this conversation. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

Which is a lie, but Bob’s not about to say that. Especially as the only reason it does is because he wants to see more.

At first it seems Ray’s going to let the conversation drop, but then he says, “If it makes you uncomfortable…”

“It doesn’t,” Bob repeats, cutting Ray off. “I just hate being stuck inside.”

“You and me both.” Ray sighs, and looks toward the door with its frame of clothes. “Will Patrick be worried?”

“About me? No.” Which is true, in the way that Patrick won’t be worried about Bob, but will be worried about his online connection, which is bound to be down with the dust. “He’ll be glad of the time alone.”

Ray waits a moment and then asks, “Have you known him long?”

“A while.” Bob remembers finding a much younger Patrick walking the highway, his bare feet bleeding and his skin bright red. It’s another memory that Bob holds close, and also one he doesn’t want to revisit right now. He pulls the parts of the radio toward him, says, “I was thinking we could boost the range by installing a piggy-backed battery.”

Ray straightens, apparently getting the hint as he smiles at Bob and says, “Let’s do it.”

~*~*~*~*~

“You’re trying to tell me that you spent a full day there and nothing happened?” Patrick’s sitting turned away from his computer, codes running down the screen and reflected in his glasses. “Because I don’t believe you.”

Bob pulls off his bandana and rubs his hands over his head, shaking the last remnants of dust free from his hair. Tired, he keeps rubbing until his hands feel gritty, then stands and goes for a drink, his back to Patrick. “Well don’t, but nothing happened.”

“You’ve a boner for them and nothing happened,” Patrick says, and while Bob can’t see he knows Patrick’s rolling his eyes.

“I haven’t got a boner for them,” Bob says, each word deliberate as he turns back around. “I’m fixing their car.”

“I’m not stupid, Bob.” The chair wheels squeak as Patrick turns completely away from his computer, his attention fixed on Bob. “I don’t understand it, and I think it’s a dangerous game you’re playing. But you’re obviously playing it anyway. So just admit it already.”

Bob trusts Patrick, he has for a long time, but this would be a double admission, to both Patrick and himself. His hand tight around the water bottle, Bob eventually says, “I think I like them.”

“Finally,” Patrick says, and then, “Them? You mean all of them?”

Patrick sounds pained as opposed to his usual irritation when talking about the Killjoys, and that more than anything makes Bob think about what he’s actually saying as he admits, “All of them.”

“Jesus.” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a moment before saying, “You don’t do things by half.”

“It’s not like I planned it.” Bob sets down the water bottle with a clatter and starts to pace, which reminds him of Frank, and Bob abruptly stops moving. “They were just _there_ , talking and hanging out and threatening to kill me.”

Patrick takes that in his stride, which Bob suspects has everything to do with being Pete’s friend for so long. Legs outstretched, he stares at Bob. “You really like them? This isn’t sexual frustration talking, because if it is go find their wanted posters and rub one out.”

Bob considers. It has been a while since he’s been with anyone and sexual frustration could be the answer. In a way he hopes that it is. “I’m not sure.”

“Well find out.” Patrick starts to turn back to his computer, but then stops and says, “Whatever you decide, I’ve got your back.”

All Bob can say is, “Thanks.”

~*~*~*~

Mikey’s learned to trust his own instincts, and that goes especially for people. What Frank said was right, Mikey does know many waifs and strays. It’s how he’s got friends and contacts in all the zones, including Battery City, and mostly Mikey trusts every one.

It’s why he’s thinking about Bob. How he could be a good fit, someone that could eventually slot into their lives. Which is a quick decision, sure, but that’s how they live. Do it loud, do it now is more than a catch-phrase when tomorrow may never arrive. It’s just. All of the others need to be on board too, and Mikey settles down opposite Gerard, needing to talk.

“I like Bob,” Mikey says, and sits with his legs crossed, his feet against Gerard’s, watching as he sketches.

“He brought you back,” Gerard says, and the nib of his pen scratches against the rough paper, the beads of his bracelet providing a counter sound that follows each stroke. “I like him too.”

It’s an opinion Mikey expected, but it’s also the most important and Mikey can’t help feeling relieved. Gerard’s their leader, but more importantly he’s the person whose opinion Mikey respects the most. It’s why he needs this okay, and he keeps watching as a skeleton emerges on the page, one that seems to be standing in a field of flowers.

Gerard shades in a rib, says casually, “It’s for Bob’s Jeep.”

Mikey imagines the design on the side of the Jeep. The flowers and skeleton painted over the scuffed and dented panels. “It’ll look awesome.”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and finally looks up. “You’ve asked the others?”

Mikey shakes his head, because status aside, Gerard was always going to be the easiest sell. “Not yet.”

“You should.” Gerard holds up the page the right way and says, “I’ll paint it on when he’s ready.”

Mikey stares at the picture, then stands.

~~~~~

Norms are different than before, opinions and behavior changing along with the landscape and society rules. It’s why sex is easy now, but the true intimacy that’s forged in time and trust is rarely given.

It’s why Mikey’s being so careful, asking opinions before inviting Bob close, and he stands in the middle of the diner, listening to the rustle of paper before turning, and heading for Ray.

Right now he’s outside, his guitar on his lap as he sits in the sunshine, basking in the heat. His head tilted back and eyes closed he looks utterly relaxed, and Mikey takes a moment to just look, enjoying the way Ray’s shirt is pulled tight across his chest and the way he looks so genuinely happy as he opens his eyes and smiles.

“Mikey, hey.”

Mikey smiles in reply, and makes his way over to Ray. Lowering himself down he rubs his hands over his knees, trying to ease the ache of still sore skin, and then listens as Ray picks out a tune, one gentle and quiet, a match to this day.

“Bob’s hot,” Mikey says, and Ray stills his hand, fingers over the strings.

“He is,” Ray agrees, and he’s looking directly at Mikey, as if he’s trying to see additional meaning behind the words. Then, “He was awake the other night.” Ray sounds unconcerned and he plucks a single note before adding, “You’d be good together.”

“ _We_ would,” Mikey says, needing to make that distinction. “All of us.”

Ray’s staring down at his guitar, but makes no further attempt at playing. “You think he’d go for that?”

Truthfully, Mikey isn’t sure. While it’s obvious Bob likes to visit, and he hasn’t ran screaming yet, it’s still a big step between seeing and doing. Reaching over, he clumsily picks out a tune, says, “I don’t know.”

Ray rests his hand over Mikey’s. “But you’re going to find out?”

“I have to see Frank first,” Mikey says. “But I hope so, yeah.”

~~~~~

Frank’s suspicions are a very real barrier. However, considering all that’s happened in their shared past, and in Frank’s before he joined then, it’s one Mikey understands. Sun-warm, he brushes sand from his pants and stares over at Frank, considering what to say. Nothing fits, and eventually all Mikey does is walk up to Frank and say, “Ride with me?”

It’s something they both like to do, and immediately Frank puts down his magazine, picks up his gun and says, “Lets go.”

Helmet held in his hand, Mikey follows Frank around the side of the diner, then waits as Frank straddles the bike and starts up the engine. It means he has to lean forward, his t-shirt pulled up at the back and his pants tight at the thighs. Unashamedly, Mikey stares, using those visuals to cut through the low level of anxiety that’s heavy in his stomach.

Frank looks over his shoulder, his mouth quirked as he says, “See something you like?”

“A vain asshole?” Mikey suggests, and bites back his own grin.

Unperturbed, Frank twists his hand, making the engine roar as Mikey climbs on behind him.

Pulling on his helmet, Mikey fastens the strap and pushes down the visor, his knees pressed tight against the bike sides and his hands on Frank’s hips. It feels second nature to be nestled so close, and Mikey focuses on that feeling and not memories of being catapulted through the air, metal crashing and an engine squealing.

“Ready?” Frank asks, but he doesn't ask if Mikey really wants to do this, even though Mikey’s digging his fingers into Frank’s skin.

“I’m fucking ready,” Mikey says and immediately they go. Dirt under their wheels and the wind catching Frank’s hair, blowing it back so it hits against Mikey’s visor.

With no destination in mind, Mikey gives himself up to the journey, the feel of sweat trickling down his spine, how Frank’s so solid and _there_ , how it feels like they’re flying as Frank hits the highway and opens the throttle.

Without music all there is is the sound of Mikey’s own breathing, the drone of their tires and then, Frank yelling. Some kind of battle cry as he curves his back so he’s leaning against Mikey, head against his shoulder and hair streaming, providing a physical end to the cry.

Then Frank slows, stopping at the side of the road. It’s nowhere special, no beautiful view or place of meaning. Just sand and dirt and the endless highway, Frank turning, twisting around as he says, “I won’t say no.”

Mikey takes off his helmet, holds it in one hand as he uses the other to wipe at the sweat on his brow. “I haven’t asked you anything.”

“But you were going to,” Frank says, and he’s looking away from Mikey, his gaze unfocused. “I like Bob.”

“Enough to invite him in?” Mikey asks, because even if Frank is giving his permission, Mikey needs to be sure he’s agreeing for himself and not only for Mikey. “You can say no.”

“I know,” Frank says, and when he turns back to Mikey his expression is serious. “I do like him, I trust him, he’s fucking hot.”

“But?” Mikey says, because as much as Frank knows him, Mikey knows Frank in return, and he’s hesitating about something, Mikey can feel it.

“But take it slow,” Frank says. “The sex, sure. And he can use the chair for his clothes. But nothing else. Not straight away.”

Which works for Mikey, but still, he wraps his arms around Frank and rests his chin on his shoulder. “Since when are you the cautious one?”

“Since I thought you’d died,” Frank says, and moves his head to the side, his cheek against Mikey’s.

~*~*~*~*~

There’s a different feeling in the air. Bob sensed it as soon as he arrived, like a constant prickle of _something_ buried under the usual shit-talk and routines of working on the Trans Am and accepting coffee and food.

What’s not usual is the way they all _keep_ talking, anything from old comic books arcs to an impromptu lecture on how to dye BL/ind’s uniform white underwear a pleasing shade of red. Bob’s been on the verge of leaving for hours, but each time he tries he’s lured back inside, until now, when he’s standing at the side of his Jeep, looking out at the desert that’s already hidden in shadows.

In the doorway of the diner, Frank’s got the planks pushed to one side, letting light stream outside. It’s highlighting Gerard, who follows the path forward, his hair blazing and stride sure until he stops close to Bob. So close that he can reach out and curl his hand around Bob’s wrist as he says, “You should stay.”

It isn’t a command, but it’s not a question either, and Gerard’s some half merged version of both Party Poison and himself. It throws Bob off balance, and he looks over Gerard’s shoulder to where Ray and Mikey are standing to either side of Frank, all watching and waiting.

It feels like the beginning all over again. Which is infuriating because Bob thought they were past this, and now they’re back to insinuations and actions Bob needs to decipher. Bob pulls out of Gerard’s grasp and goes to get in his Jeep. “I should go, Patrick’s expecting me back.”

Gerard takes a step forward, and then back, as if unsure how to act. It’s that more than anything that makes Bob hesitate, long enough that Ray steps toward them and says, “I’ve been thinking about fuel injectors.”

Which is so unexpected in this moment that Bob can’t help but laugh at what’s becoming a ridiculous situation. Still, he doesn’t think he’s in any danger of being murdered in his sleep, and even if Patrick is expecting Bob back, he won’t worry if he doesn’t. It’s why yet again Bob takes a leap, pushing aside his frustrations as he heads for the diner and says, “There better be oatmeal in the morning.”

Frank pushes the plank up higher, letting Bob inside. “We can do better than that.”

He doesn’t specify how, but Bob suspects he’ll soon find out.

~~~~~~

It’s not long later when Mikey stands and stretches, yawning in an obvious way. His jacket and thigh holster are already draped over a chair and he bends forward, and starts to unfasten his laces.

“You’ll trip over them again,” Gerard says, but Mikey ignores him, and heads for the bedroom, his boot laces trailing behind him.

“You’d think he’d wait for a minute,” Gerard says, his hands clenching as if he’s tempted to jump up and refasten the laces. “But no.”

“Little brothers, what are you going to do?” Ray says easily, but it’s a comment that strikes at Bob’s gut. Reminding him that even though things have changed, norms becoming more grey then actual black and white, Mikey still is Gerard’s brother.

Bob suspects he should care, but he doesn’t. What he does feel is confused, thrown off kilter as he tries to understand what’s going on. But at the foundation of those feelings remains desire.

It fuels Bob’s need to see more, do more, and that’s fucking scary. Knowing that once he takes this step he’s crossed a line and can’t go back. Of course, Bob realizes he’s halfway across the line already. Maybe platonic friends do sometimes accidentally end up listening to each other getting off, but they certainly don’t use those memories for their own personal fantasies, and Bob’s spent too much time recently remembering the night of the dust storm. Picking over each memorized gasp and wet sound as he lies in his bed, the sheets thrown to the ground and hand on his cock.

“If you break your neck don’t come crying to me,” Gerard says, hurrying after Mikey.

It’s the type of comment Bob’s heard Gerard say a thousand times, concern wrapped in fond exasperation and he’s beginning to think that nothing’s going to happen tonight when Frank heads to the doorway and says, “Watch.”

Already Ray’s standing behind Frank, one arm over his shoulder as he slouches so their heads are together. Which leaves room for Bob on the other side of the door. Taking that place he rests his hip against the frame, confused about what they’re supposed to be watching, because all Mikey and Gerard are doing are standing close to the mattresses, as if they’re about to get ready to sleep. Then they start to undress, and within seconds Bob’s transfixed.

In the time he’s known Mikey he’s seen him shut down and hurting, confident and sure, at ease and laughing with the people he knows best. Now he’s showing something else again, something so private that Bob feels like a voyeur, even though all Mikey’s doing is standing close to Gerard.

Mikey’s bare toes are against Gerard’s boots, and he reaches out, and rests the flat of his hand against Gerard’s cheek before trailing his hand down, fingers against Gerard’s neck, over the smudges of red dye and onto his chest. Mikey stops then, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment when Gerard places his own hand over Mikey’s.

Bob’s breathing shallowly, afraid that the slightest of noise will shatter this spell.

“It gets better,” Frank, says softly, and the words seem wrong somehow, like these moments are meant for actions alone. But Ray’s nodding his agreement, and Bob grips the door-frame as Gerard curls his hand around Mikey’s, and then brings it to his own mouth, pressing a kiss against Mikey’s palm.

It like an old-fashioned gesture, one made for times past, not this stark, dirty room. But that doesn’t matter as it fits _them_ , especially when Mikey’s mouth curls up at one side, his expression softening into something so tender it could only be meant for Gerard. Gerard drops his hand then, and Mikey kneels, never breaking eye contact with Gerard

Despite his own racing heart, Bob’s also thrown off balance with Mikey’s sudden drop to his knees. It feels too soon and abrupt for the rhythm they’d been following and Bob feels like he’s suddenly been thrown to mid-song. Then Mikey looks down, his head bent forward as he begins to unfasten Gerard’s boots.

It should be the ultimate in submission, Mikey’s head bowed as he patiently unties doubly fastened knots. It’s not. It can’t be when Gerard’s head is bowed too, his fingers in Mikey’s hair, gently stroking to the nape of his neck. It’s a touch that’s all love, gentle and careful and yet strong as Gerard lifts his feet in turn, allowing Mikey to tug off his boots and socks.

His feet bare, Gerard stands still as Mikey kneels up, freezing as he pulls in a sharp breath. Then, glancing up at Gerard, Mikey brings his hands to Gerard’s belt, and starts to unfasten the buckle. His fingers hooked over the metal, Mikey tugs the spike from the leather, letting the ends of the belt hang loose.

Buttons next, and Mikey eases out each one, dull metal through faded denim, Gerard’s pants falling open. From where he’s standing Bob can see flashes of Gerard’s underwear, the grey material visible behind Mikey’s hands. Expecting Gerard to push down his pants, again Bob’s surprised when Mikey slows things down. His hands flat, Mikey rests them over folded material, his thumbs extended and pressed into the shadow of Gerard’s legs and groin, his finger-tips over stretched-out elastic.

Curling his fingers, Mikey pulls at the waistband of Gerard’s underwear, exposing a line of dark hair. Then stops and leans forward, pressing a kiss against Gerard’s stomach, Mikey’s eyes closing as he breathes in deep, then blindly pulls down Gerard’s pants and underwear, so they’re crumpled around his feet.

“Fuck,” Bob breathes, and he swallows as Gerard pulls off his own t-shirt and throws it to one side, Bob sparing a moment to track its path before looking back to Mikey and Gerard.

Fully naked and hard, Gerard’s shoulders are back, his knees against Mikey’s chest, and he visibly shivers when Mikey kisses his stomach again, under Gerard’s belly button and then over, mouth against the raised scar.

In that position Mikey’s listing to one side, his t-shirt pulled up exposing his back, the skin mottled with fading yellowing bruises. Then he straightens, one hand curled around Gerard’s thigh, the other on his hip, and Gerard’s eyes close as Mikey moves his head, dragging his cheek along Gerard’s cock.

“Mikey,” Gerard gasps, the name rough and drawn as Mikey takes him into his mouth.

It’s a sound that goes right to Bob’s dick, and he turns a little, inhaling sharply as he rests against the door-frame, welcoming the pressure as he takes in how Mikey’s mouth is wet, his lips tight around Gerard’s cock, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks and then pulls back.

It’s a rhythm that’s painfully slow, but also allows Bob to see details, how Mikey’s hair falls into his face and gets caught against his mouth in wet strands, the trail of saliva that shines against Mikey’s chin and how Gerard’s back arches, the muscles in his ass tightening as he shallowly fucks Mikey’s mouth.

Bob wants to touch. To rest his hand against Gerard’s back, to run his fingers along the line of Mikey’s jaw and push them into his mouth. All he can do is touch himself, palming his dick through his pants as Mikey pulls back, spit trailing from his mouth to Gerard’s cock, snapping as Mikey reaches up and curls his hand around Gerard’s neck, and pulls him down for a kiss. One that’s messy and wet, and Mikey’s head is back, his neck exposed and tendons pulled tight.

Like that’s some kind of signal that Bob’s unaware of, Frank tears off his own t-shirt as he stalks forward and drops to his knees with an audible thump. The sudden intrusion against Mikey and Gerard is jarring at first, but within seconds Frank’s easing into his own place, one where he obviously belongs.

Hand against Gerard’s hip, Frank mouths against Mikey’s neck and up to his jaw and then further, licking over his chin, lapping at the moisture.

“Fucking greedy,” Ray says then, and he’s pushing himself away from the door-way and over to Gerard, Mikey and Frank. “Doing this on the floor isn’t the best.”

Gerard nods, and takes stumbling steps backwards toward the mattresses, Frank crawling after him, his eyes wide and dark. Which leaves Mikey, who appears lost on his own, adrift before Ray bends and wraps his arms around Mikey’s chest, bodily lifting him up.

Mikey keeps his legs bent, his whole body frozen until Ray sets him on the mattresses, and Mikey unfurls, stretching out next to Gerard, their fingertips touching, blond and red hair mixed together on one side. Individually compelling, together like this they’re irresistible. Bob’s straining to see, hating they’re so far away, details becoming lost as Frank kicks off his pants and underwear and Ray his t-shirt and jeans.

Ray drops his clothes to the floor and looks over his shoulder toward Bob. “Why are you still over there?”

Bob opens his mouth to reply, but realizes he doesn’t know what to say, uncertainty leaving him speechless. It feels like he’s been given seconds to make a life-changing decision, and he’s caught between wanting to run and taking that final step forward.

It’s a dilemma that Ray seems determined to break. Walking away from the others, he approaches Bob and stands so they’re close but not touching. “We want you, but if you walk away it’s okay. You’ll still be a friend.”

It’s a genuine statement, Bob can hear that, and while Ray expression is serious, as always a smile seems only seconds away. It makes Bob feel safe, comfortable, and he glances down, taking in how Ray’s hard, his white boxers pulled tight.

Bob’s fingers twitch with the need to touch, and he quickly looks up, heat flooding his cheeks as he sees that Ray is smiling now, but more predatory as he takes hold of Bob’s hand and repeats, “We want you.”

It’s a simple statement and one that rings true. Despite lingering indecision, Bob nods, and allows himself to be lead forward, and kneels on the edge of the mattress next to Mikey.

“I brought Bob,” Ray says, and he squeezes Bob’s hand before letting go, and settling down next to Gerard.

“Hey, Bob,” Mikey says, and breaches the distance Bob’s left between them by reaching out and resting his hand against Bob’s knee. “Come here.”

“Hey,” Bob says in reply, and awkwardly pats Mikey’s hand before crawling forward, so he’s a little bit closer. Seemingly satisfied, Mikey pulls back his hand, resting it against Frank’s side when he drapes himself between Mikey and Gerard. Wiggling a moment, Frank’s resumes licking Mikey’s neck, and Bob’s attention is torn.

He wants to watch how Ray’s blanketing Gerard, Gerard’s cock barely visible from where it’s trapped under Ray’s body, pre-come smeared over the swell of Ray’s stomach, visible as he rolls his hips.

But Bob also wants to watch Mikey and Frank, the way that Mikey’s clothes are in disarray, his t-shirt pushed up and his pants low on his hips as Frank worms his hand inside them while nuzzling at Mikey’s neck, making him gasp when he bites down hard.

It’s almost too much to take in. Bob’s spent years on his own and then even more with only Patrick for company. To go from that to this is an abrupt jump, even with the time Bob’s spent with them before -- not that he’s about to run now.

Palming his dick, Bob pushes the heel of his hand down hard as Gerard whimpers and wraps his legs around Ray’s back, his ankles crossed and his calves blanched white as Ray steps up the tempo, thrusting harder, and one hand pressed against the marks on Gerard’s throat. His fingers digging in as he turns to Bob and says, “Keep watching.”

Bob takes in the contrast. Ray’s fingers over red dye and then looks up, seeing how Gerard’s mouth and eyes are open, his head turned toward Mikey and Frank. Bob follows Gerard’s gaze and sees how Frank’s kissing Mikey, his hair falling forward so their faces are half hidden. But Bob can hear the noises they make, the wet sounds and breathy whimper that’s so similar to Gerard’s.

It’s those noises Bob loves the most, and he takes them all in, his whole body tingling as they merge together. Sounds and the smell of sex, bodies pressed close and constantly shifting lines and colors. Frank’s dark hair against Gerard’s and Mikey’s. The sweat-damp curls at the nape of Ray’s neck as he looks down, his hair falling forward.

Frank kissing Mikey and then reaching for Gerard. Ray sliding his hand between his body and Gerard’s before offering his fingers to Mikey, who sucks them into his mouth.

Bob aches to touch, and be touched and he pulls open his own belt, fumbling at his buttons before sliding his hand down the front of his pants, knowing it’s ridiculous but still unable to take that last step of exposing himself so blatantly.

Mikey sighs, and grabs hold of Bob’s belt, pulling him forward. “Do I have to threaten to kill you to get you to touch?”

“It would make things more familiar,” Bob says, and he’s only part joking as he pulls back his hand and knee-walks even closer, until he can feel the warmth of Mikey’s body. His knees are against Mikey’s side and Bob’s touched Mikey already, on every part of his body, but this is so different that it feels like the first time.

Hesitantly, Bob touches Mikey’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin and the play of his muscles as Mikey turns slightly onto his side, Frank doing the same so he’s draped over Mikey and looking at Bob.

“Want a hand with that?” Frank asks, as he takes hold of the waistband of Bob’s pants.

About to push down the other side, Bob stills his hand when Mikey says, “We’ve got this.”

In unison, Mikey and Frank tug down Bob’s pants and underwear, and he’s left with the material bunched around his lower thighs, self-conscious as he becomes aware of the way that Gerard and Ray are both staring.

It’s an awareness that lasts all of a few seconds, and Bob’s biting back a gasp when he feels someone’s hand on his dick. Unsure of who, he looks down and sees that it’s both Frank and Mikey, their hands curled together.

Bob wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but arousal hits even harder, an intense rush that leaves him breathless as he takes in the details. The dark letters on Frank’s fingers, how one of Mikey’s knuckles is grazed, the grime under their nails and how Frank’s got his thumb pressed against Mikey’s.

They’re working together, and something with the possibility of being awkward isn’t at all. Bob’s mouth is open and he clenches his hands in thin air as he watches the slide of his own dick beneath their joined hands. Visuals adding to the feel of their hands, skin rough and dragging until Frank spits, saliva worked between their fingers, someone’s thumb pushed against the head of Bob’s cock -- almost too hard and too much.

“Bob,” Gerard says, and Bob looks across Mikey and Frank, seeing that Gerard’s pushed himself up on one elbow, Ray having moved to the side. “Thank you.”

Bob’s unsure what he’s been thanked for, and he’d ask but it’s taking all his effort to remain upright. His balance thrown off as he sways, his eyes fluttering closed as Mikey and Frank increase their speed, and all Bob can do is hang on. His scattered attention pulled in until all that matters is the feel of those hands on his dick, heat building and pressure intensifying until he’s panting for breath. And it’s been so long, too long, and Bob hears himself whimper, and it’s almost enough -- almost -- and Bob’s trembling as he opens his eyes and sees that Mikey and Frank are kissing, Gerard’s fingers tangled in Mikey’s hair, Ray pushed up on one elbow, his arm draped over them all, his fingertips brushing against Bob’s hip.

And with that most gentle of touches, Bob’s pushed over the edge, light-headed and trembling as Mikey and Frank pull back their hands, clasping them together as Mikey brings them to his mouth, and stares directly at Bob as as he licks their fingers clean.

~*~*~*~

Frank wakes with his face squashed against Mikey’s chest and Gerard a warm, heavy weight pressed against his back. Frank can hear the sound of him breathing, the soft hitches of breath that signify that Gerard’s deeply asleep.

Yawning, Frank considers doing the same, but already sunlight is streaming into the diner and more than that, Frank’s mouth feels gross. Dry and his teeth coated and he swallows as he starts to wiggle free, needing a drink.

Instinctively he looks over Gerard for Ray, and sees that he’s curled under the blankets, only the top of his head visible. Then, in a development that still feels brand new, for Bob. All Frank sees is an empty space, the blanket Bob should have been using wrapped tightly around Mikey.

Apprehension hits, and Frank tells himself there’s a good explanation. That Bob could have needed to piss or got hungry, or even like Frank himself, needed a drink, Frank pushes himself upright, and heads for the other room.

It’s empty, and Frank does a quick circuit, checking their guns and supplies, the pills that they keep hidden. Everything is there and Frank’s telling himself that there’s no need for suspicion, that there is a good explanation; but it doesn’t help.

Frowning, he goes back into the bedroom and scoops up his pants, pulling them on and grabbing his raygun before heading for the exit. Frank opens the door and pushes the planks to one side as he steps into an already hot day.

“Morning.”

Frank squints against the early morning sun, and brings up his hand, shading his face. He’s gripping his gun with the other and points it toward the ground as he says, “I could have shot you.”

“But you didn’t,” Bob replies, and holds up a metal mug. “Coffee.”

Frank’s not as big as a fan as Gerard and Mikey, but right now coffee sounds perfect. Sand tickling between his toes, he sits next to Bob, who’s leaning against the front tire of his Jeep, looking toward the rising sun.

“Tell me you don’t get up this early on purpose,” Frank says, and takes the mug before drinking. The coffee is luke-warm, also so weak it looks more like colored water. “And what the fuck is this? Did you use more than a grain?”

“It’s not mine to take,” Bob says, and then, “And no, I couldn’t sleep.”

Frank remembers Bob sleeping, he’s sure that he did. At least, he remembers Bob lying down, looking rumbled and flushed, and far too hot in his clothes. “You didn’t sleep at all?”

Bob shrugs and keeps looking forward. But Frank’s been friends with Mikey forever, which means he’s the master of looking past the most stony of expressions, and right Bob seems unsettled. It’s enough to make Frank feel uncomfortable, that as much as they wanted Bob to join them maybe he wasn’t really keen in return. Hating that thought, Frank says, “You’re okay, right? About last night?”

“Yeah,” Bob says, and he looks directly at Frank. “It was good, I liked it.”

“It looked like you more than liked it.” Frank grins, enjoying the memory of last night even as he keeps thinking, trying to work out what’s got Bob so unsure.

“I should go home soon,” Bob says, while making no attempt to move.

Frank takes another sip of coffee, and suddenly a memory surfaces, another time and place, but the same sand and dirt, the same taste of chemicals in the air, and the smoke black against the horizon. It’s a time when Party Poison and Kobra Kid didn’t exist, but Gerard and Mikey had from the beginning, and Frank turns, looking at Bob. “It sucks when you’re the new kid.”

Frank’s not sure if this is the right way to explain, but Bob’s listening, asks, “You’re going somewhere with this?”

“Yeah,” Frank says, and he remembers those days when two became three, and how Frank felt like he was pushing into something that was already established. How he was trying to carve out a space where none was supposed to exist. “I just. I know it’s hard but you’ve got a place here if you want it, and however you want it.”

Bob takes the mug and drains the last of the coffee, says, “Does that mean I get to have breakfast?”

“If you make it,” Frank says, and even though Bob appears calmer, even smiling a little as he stands, Frank can’t get the feeling he’s not seeing the whole picture.

~*~*~*~

Methodically, Bob straightens the remaining parts of the bike, and then uses the hem of his t-shirt to polish a smudge on a panel. The bike itself is standing close by, still unfinished but the framework is there, ready for Bob to complete it.

Sitting back on his heels, he contemplates the broken apart engine, and then startles when Patrick enters through the open front doors and immediately states, “You slept with them.”

Bob picks up a wrench, says, “What are you, the fucking sex police?”

“Don’t even think about throwing that at me,” Patrick warns, and picks his way through the workshop, stopping next to the burnt out carcass of an old van. “And I know your next morning sex face.” Patrick stands still, and his mouth is twisted, his lips a tight line as he stares down at Bob. “Do I need to call in some favors?”

“God, no,” Bob says, concerned that Patrick’s about to start some kind of miss-guided war due to seeing things that aren’t there. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve arranged those things in size order,” Patrick says, and he toes at a bolt at the end of the line. “If they forced you....”

Well aware of how far Patrick can go to protect his friends, Bob needs to shut down those thoughts right now. Which means talking, and Bob tightens his grip, the wrench digging into his hand. “They didn’t force me, I wanted it, hell, I enjoyed it.”

Patrick still doesn’t look sure. “And yet you’re out here obsessively sorting.”

“I needed to think,” Bob says, his hand aching. “I talked to Fun Ghoul this morning. He thought I was worried about fitting into the group.”

“They’re an established tight unit.” All trace of previous anger gone, Patrick looks thoughtful, as if he’s actually working through the logistics of Bob fitting in with the Killjoys. “He’s got a point.”

“Maybe,” Bob admits, and he sets down the wrench, looking at the parts and not up at Patrick. “I’m thinking about telling them about S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W.”

“The fuck. Why?” Patrick says, and then continues before Bob gets the chance to reply, “Don’t fuck this up for yourself, Bob.”

Despite knowing Patrick will see right through it, Bob goes for denial, says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t even,” Patrick warns, and he takes a deep breath, then another, then says quietly, “I don’t get why you want it, but this thing you’ve got going with the Killjoys is making you happy.”

Frustrated, Bob gets to his feet. “Which is why I should tell them. They trust me, I owe them the same.”

“Except you’re not telling them for that reason,” Patrick says, and looks directly at Bob. “You’d be telling them because you're scared, and hoping they’ll push you away.”

Bob forces a laugh, hating how it sounds so painfully brittle. “You’ve been talking to Wentz too often, you’re starting to spout his psychological bullshit.”

“Doesn’t make it less true,” Patrick says.

Bob turns and walks away before he needs to reply.

~*~*~*~

There’s a gas cloud that’s settled close to the family camp, turning the air thick and unpleasant. Mikey coughs, bandana over his lower face and his eyes streaming as he runs from one tent to another. He’s carrying a can-filled sack slung over his shoulder, and it bumps against his back as he ducks inside, standing in the inner chamber as he zips the outer door.

There’s a hiss of air, the portable filter sputtering as it struggles to cope with yet another cleanse and Mikey’s glad that Ray’s helping Alicia repair an old unit.

A light flashes green and Mikey unfastens the inner zip, and steps into the main tent. It’s crowded in there, the air still stuffy and Mikey wipes at his eyes as he heads toward Jamia, who’s waving in his direction.

“Hey, cutie,” Jamia says, and grins as she greets Mikey with a pinch to the ass. “You’ve got the food?”

Mikey thinks about the cans he’s carrying, and their dubious contents. “Supposedly it’s food.”

“Works for me,” Jamia says, and she takes the sack from Mikey, slinging it over her own shoulder. “Come with me, there’s a knife with your name on.”

“I thought Gerard and Frank were helping?” Not that Mikey minds giving a hand, just he’s used to Frank mooning over Jamia while Gerard just likes to eat what she cooks.

Jamia’s grin widens and she indicates the end of the tent. “They got distracted.”

At first all Mikey sees is a sea of kids, anything from toddlers to pre-teens clustered in groups, then he spots Gerard and then Frank. They’re lying on their stomachs, paint brushes in hand and a huge sheet of paper between then. They’re surrounded on all sides by kids, including a tiny girl who’s laughing as she sits on Gerard’s back, strands of red hair wrapped tight around her chubby hands.

“They’re making a going away banner,” Jamia says, and her smile fades as she adds. “We’re planning a party.”

It’s not news that Lindsey’s moving the camp. It’s something they do periodically anyway, and the increase in Drac attacks has every zone runner on edge. It’s just, Mikey didn’t expect it happening so soon. “When are you planning to go?”

Jamia steps past a line of wooden boxes that mark the boundaries of the make-shift kitchen. “A few weeks, we need to stock pile more stuff and the gas cloud’s not helping.”

Mikey can imagine, while gas clouds are an expected part of the climate now, they still slow things down, especially when you’re trying to organise a full camp of people. He follows Jamia toward a table, says, “Hopefully the rain will come soon.”

“I hope so,” Jamia says, and then snatches up an apron and loops it over Mikey’s head. “Hoping for acid rain, we live in fucked up times.”

It’s an uncharacteristic outburst of bitterness, but one that’s understandable and Mikey lets it pass unremarked as he pinches the front of the apron between his thumb and finger. “I don’t care if I get dirty.”

Smile returning, Jamia bumps Mikey with her hip. “I care if you get dirt on the food. Now go, peel.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mikey grins and breaks out a casual salute, and peers down at the table that’s covered in some kind of vegetable. At least Mikey thinks that they’re vegetables.

“They’re roots,” Jamia says, and hands over a small knife. “We got them in trade yesterday. A crate of these for two tires.”

Mikey picks up one of the roots, his mouth screwed up to one side as he feels its rough skin and spongy insides and says blankly, “They look delicious.”

Her own knife in hand, Jamia starts peeling the root. “They will be.”

As a long time fan of Jamia’s cooking, Mikey believes her, and he peels the root he’s holding before dropping it into a pan, the resulting thud mixing with a familiar giggle.

“Love the new look,” Frank says, from where he’s appeared around the boxes. Moving to stand next to Jamia, he grins across the table at Mikey. “Want me to get you a dress, too? Something leather and red to stick with your aesthetic?”

Mikey knows Frank will be expecting threatened violence in reply to the comment. Which is why Mikey takes another track. “Are you suggesting that only women wear aprons? Because that’s kind of sexist.”

Frank shakes his head, his eyes narrowing as he looks between Mikey and Jamia. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Mikey picks up a new root and bites back a smile as he remarks, “I’d look good in a red leather dress.”

“You would,” Jamia agrees, and then turns to Frank, looking at him slowly from head to toe. “Don’t pout. You would too.”

“You know it,” Frank agrees, and picks up a piece of peeled root. “Is this poisonous before cooking?”

“No.” Jamia throws a peeled root in the pan and picks up another, looking down as she starts to peel, then bursts out laughing as Frank bites, and the immediately spits out half chewed chunks of root.

Frank wipes at his tongue with the back of his hand. “You said this was okay, it’s fucking disgusting.”

Making no attempt to hide her amusement, Jamia shakes her head. “I said it’s not poisonous, and it’s not. Just gross in the raw form.”

“You’re evil,” Frank says, sounding admiring. “You’d better feed me later for penance.”

“Don’t I always?” Jamia says, her long-suffering tone at odds to the way she’s still smiling, the one she always seems to keep especially for Frank. “I’ll make you a doggy bag, you can share it with your new killjoy.”

Despite no outward change in expression, Frank’s shoulders stiffen and Mikey hastens to say, “Bob’s not a killjoy. He’s just....” Mikey doesn’t know how to explain. While Bob’s not an official killjoy, he is someone trusted, and someone that’s becoming part of their inner circle.

“He’s a friend,” Frank says, visibly relaxing. “A hot friend. One we sleep with.”

Jamia puts down her knife, her gaze unfocused. “Now that’s something I’d pay to see.”

Frank seems taken back for all of a second, then winks. “Hand over some finished root-whatever-you-make and I’ll see what I can do.”

Jamia grins, says, “Deal.”

~*~*~*~

Damp clothes in his arms, Frank walks away from the bowl of scum filmed water, and heads from the shadows into full sun.

Laundry isn’t a job he does often, the lack of water always a problem, but when Frank does he likes to scatter the clothes. T-shirts draped on the hood of the Trans Am, pants on the gas pumps, a row of bandanas fluttering from the handles of Ray’s bike.

It’s mindless, comforting work, and after weighing down the last sock Frank peels off his t-shirt which has become wet at the front. Laying it next to the line of miss-matched socks, he goes back inside, where Ray’s sitting at the table with Bob. There’s a magazine open between them, a pen lying abandoned over a half-completed crossword.

Hands on the edge of the table, Frank looks at the filled in answers, which don’t seem to answer the clues at all. “Fuck is a four letter word meaning fall in line? Really?”

“It fits,” Ray says, and he grins as he looks over at Bob. “But not as much as three down.”

Suspecting an insult, Frank looks for the clue, and as soon as he does knows he’ll find his name as an answer. “A five letter word meaning annoying. That’s the best you can do?”

“We checked the dictionary, Frank was part of the definition,” Bob says, as earnest as Gerard at his best. Which is _really_ earnest, and Frank can’t help being impressed.

“You suck.” Frank slides into the booth, sitting forward a little so his bare back doesn’t stick to the cracked vinyl. “Both of you suck.”

“And you seem to have lost your shirt,” Ray says, and Frank shivers as Ray runs his fingers down Frank’s side. “Did you get bleach on it again?”

Frank shakes his head. “Just water. Gerard’s pants were fucking disgusting, and I think there was brain matter on your t-shirt.”

“Probably from that last Drac you ghosted,” Ray says casually, like brain matter on his clothes means nothing. “And Gerard’s pants are always disgusting. Everyone’s are.”

Bob leans forward, his arms crossed on the table. “You do all the washing?”

Frank holds up his hands, showing off his puffed-up and wrinkled fingers. “Someone has to.”

“I guess.” Bob looks toward the bedroom, where the vandalized wanted posters are just visible. “They don’t tend to mention the Killjoys doing laundry.”

“It would make us too human,” Ray says, and Frank has to agree. From an outside perspective the Killjoys are nothing but rebels, four names and four faces who do nothing but fight the system. But from the inside it’s that and everything more, and most of it mundane.

Deciding to brave the vinyl, Frank sits back, says, “We cook too. Unless someone offers to do it for us.”

“You need to work on your subtlety,” Bob says, and gives Frank a long look. “But fine, I can make dinner.”

“Good,” Frank says, and irritated already by how clammy he feels, he lists to the side so he’s lying against Ray. “Make kibble stir fry again. Just go easy on the stewed pricks this time.”

“Spikes,” Bob says with a sigh. “I keep telling you, they’re cactus spikes.”

Ray puts his arm around Frank, his hand against Frank’s arm. “You’re both wrong, they’re needles.”

It’s an argument that could run for hours, and while normally Frank enjoys a good debate, today he’s not in the mood, too sun-warm and content to argue his case -- even if he is right. “I don’t give a fuck what they’re called. Just pull back the volume, I was shitting green strands last time.”

“So don’t look,” Bob says. He slides out of the booth and heads toward the door which is propped open, allowing sunshine to flood into the room. “Come and help me harvest, or it won’t be done before Gerard and Mikey get back.”

Ray picks up the pen and pulls the magazine toward him. “I’m busy.”

“Washing, harvesting pricks, you’ll have me washing the floor next,” Frank grumbles, but follows Bob willingly. “I need my t-shirt first though, those fucking cactuses fight dirty.”

“Cacti,” Ray says immediately, and Frank grins back in return, secure that right now, his world is behaving exactly as expected.

~~~~~

When Bob sleeps over it’s usually Mikey or Gerard that signify the move toward bed. Either through Gerard’s role of leader making itself apparent, or Mikey due to knowing Bob that little bit longer, even if those early days were more enemies than friends.

Each time they do Frank goes eagerly, but he’s never taken the initiative himself. Not through fear of being rebuffed, more that the first time he does Frank will be announcing his total acceptance of Bob. Which he wasn’t ready to give; until tonight.

After a day that’s been slow and lazy and easy, Frank’s energy is surging, needing a release. Unable to stay still, he bounces on the balls of his feet, assessing the possibility of either Gerard or Mikey wanting to go to bed. It’s a possibility that seems low right now, especially when Mikey’s lost in one of Dr Death Defying’s broadcasts, his eyes closed and head bobbing to the music and Gerard is about to head for his pens.

Frank wants them all, badly, and makes a decision, announcing. “I want to go to bed. Now.”

It’s not the most suave of seductions, but that doesn’t matter. Without comment Mikey turns off the music and Gerard changes direction while Ray pushes aside his crossword, and then grabs Bob’s arm and urges him up.

“Hey Frank,” Gerard says, and pauses on his way to the bedroom, leaning in for a kiss. Frank keeps his eyes open, needing to see. Scarlet hair and lightly tanned skin, the dark of Gerard’s eyelashes and the streak of blue ink on his cheek, put there by the kids at the family camp three days before.

“Hey,” Frank says, his hands on Gerard’s hips, the kiss brief and light, more a promise of intent than anything lasting.

Gerard pulls back and heads for the mattresses, stands next to Mikey, Ray and Bob, and says, “Where do you want us? It’s your call.”

Frank hasn’t thought that far forward. He knows he wants to touch and be touched, to be surrounded by people he loves on all sides. Which is when Frank hesitates, because he doesn’t love Bob, but he has learned to like him; a lot.

Frank looks directly at Bob and asks, “Do you top?”

“Not for a while,” Bob says, and while outwardly he’s composed, his jaw is clenched as tight as his hands. Not that Frank’s surprised at his answer. While Bob’s slept with them a few times now each times he’s done nothing but watch or touch with his hands or his tongue. Something this intimate is a big change, and Frank’s wondering if he’s gone too far, too fast.

Gerard looks between Frank and Bob, asks, “You want to change that?”

Immediately, Bob says, “Yes,” and Frank suspects he’s misunderstood the reason for Bob’s tension. Which is good, because the more he’s thinking about it the more Frank wants Bob.

“Okay. Good.” Frank pulls off his t-shirt and throws it to one side, walks forward as he starts to unbuckle his belt. “I want you to fuck me.”

“That’s your big seduction?” Bob asks, and he’s tracking Frank’s every move, watching as he strips off his clothes.

Frank kicks off his boots and stands on one foot as he peels off his sock. “You can have kibble and flowers next time, princess.”

Ray sighs, long and tragic. “He used to promise me flowers and kibble.”

“He brought me a cactus once,” Gerard says, his mournful tone shaky. “It was shaped like a dick, he said it reminded him of me.”

Mikey stares blankly at Frank, says, “You said the dick cactus was our thing.”

Frank hates them all, really he does, with their fake frowns and phony outrage that’s making Frank laugh. “You all suck.” It’s a lame comeback but Frank hasn’t the time or the inclination for anything better. He tugs off his second sock and stands in only his pants. Hands on the waistband he starts to slide them over his hips, and then realizes none of the others have moved. “Why are you all still dressed?”

“We’re watching you,” Ray says. “And you haven’t said what you want us to do.”

Frank’s mouth is dry and he swallows, trying to pick from the things he loves most. Mikey and Gerard kissing, tenderness and desire mixed together. Ray on his knees, his chin and mouth wet as he sucks cock, Gerard’s hands in his hair. The noises Mikey makes when Ray fucks him, and the way Gerard always lies close, his mouth against Mikey’s, taking in every gasp and whimper.

They’re memories Frank treasures, made vivid by experience and time. Except, this time there’s Bob to add to the mixture, and somehow Frank wants to do this together. The problem is how. Frank’s seen plenty of porn films, read the underground magazines that are sent to the zones. He has some ideas in mind and while in theory they’d work, right now they don’t feel right.

“How about we wing it?” Gerard suggests, and Frank nods, grateful Gerard’s made the suggestion.

Ray starts to take off his clothes, his voice muffled as he pulls off his t-shirt. “As long as I get to watch Bob fuck Frank.”

Always a voyeur,” Gerard says fondly, and Frank’s well aware of that kink, how intently Ray always watches. It’s a knowledge that makes Frank shiver, cool against the heat of his skin.

“You sure you want me to do that?” Bob asks, and Frank gets why he’s making sure, but Frank’s also frustrated, and he grabs two handfuls of Bob’s t-shirt and pulls him down so they’re face to face.

“Yes I’m sure,” Frank says, punctuating the words with a hard kiss, their mouths pressed together. “I want you to fuck me.”

“You’re fucking bossy,” Bob remarks, but he’s also obviously turned on as he runs his hands down Frank’s back, stopping at the swell of his ass. “We need lube.”

Instantly a tin of BL/ind issued lube arches through the air. It lands on the mattresses, the white bottle rolling to a stop against a pillow and Frank looks past Bob’s shoulder to Mikey, says, “Thanks.”

Mikey puts a thumbs up in reply and Frank takes a step backwards, pulling Bob with him.

It feels like he’s stepping into new territory, and Frank’s heart is thumping, fueled by uncertainty as he unbuckles Bob’s belt. While his intent is to get Bob out of his pants, Frank’s unable to resist a quick grope, loving how it makes Bob gasp, his usual stoic facade crumbling as Frank uses one hand to push down Bob’s pants, and curls the other around his dick, his thumb pressed lightly against the head.

Bob pulls in another breath, his eyes squeezed shut and then opening as he brings up his hand, cupping Frank’s cheek. “Go that fast and I won’t be able to fuck you.”

Frank stills his hand, and he’s all too aware of the way Bob’s looking at him, like he’s discovering something new that’s important and precious. It’s an expression that Frank’s seen on the others, but on Bob it’s the first time, and Frank lets out a breath the last of his barriers fading.

“You can get your pencils later.”

It’s Ray’s voice that breaks the connection, and Frank turns and sees that Gerard’s frozen in mid-step.

“But, look at them,” Gerard says, indicating Frank and Bob with a wild sweep of his hand. “ _Look at them_.”

Mikey goes to stand behind Gerard and wraps his arms around his body, resting his chin against Gerard’s shoulder. “They’ll look even better later. Think how Frankie’s going to look when Bob fucks him, you know how much he likes being held down, and Bob’s so big. They’ll look fucking awesome together, and later Ray can join in, you know you want to see that. Him using his fingers next to Bob’s cock.”

“Jesus,” Bob says on an out-breath and Frank knows how he feels, his own imagination racing as Mikey keeps talking, almost directly in Gerard’s ear.

“You know you want to draw that, Bob’s spine arching and Frank’s mouth, you want to capture his whimpers and put them on the page, when Bob first fucks him open and then after, when he’s fucked out and exhausted.”

“You want that?” Bob asks, and all Frank can do is nod, because Mikey _knows_ him, all Frank’s kinks and needs and he’s exploiting them ruthlessly.

“Okay,” Bob says, as if to himself, and then repeats, louder, “Okay.” And without warning he hooks his hands under Frank’s ass and lifts, carrying Frank to the middle of the mattresses where, without production, Bob drops him. Surprised, Frank bounces and lies flat on his back, watching as Bob tears off his own clothes, making no attempt at finesse as he throws them aside and then kneels, straddling Frank’s legs. “Lube.”

Bob holds out his hand and it’s Ray who scoops up the lube and hands it over.

No one else speaks and it feels like every sound is amplified, the snick of the bottle lid opening, the soft rasp of material brushing together, a spring yielding as Gerard and Mikey lie down together. Frank takes it all in, his fingernails catching against the blankets as he curls his hands, needing to hold on as Bob moves off to the side and then grabs hold of Frank’s leg at the knee, spreading his legs apart.

It leaves Frank feeling exposed, and he revels in the attention of everyone watching as Bob crawls so he’s between Frank’s bent knees. But it’s also a position where Bob’s hands are hidden and Frank jumps at the first touch of his fingers, made cool and slick with lube. And already Frank’s tense, willing Bob on from his cautious exploration as he runs his fingers along the crease of Frank’s groin, and under his balls, along the curve of Frank’s ass. Too slow and too gentle and Frank knows if this keeps up he’s going to go crazy.

Frank moves his hips, trying to get Bob’s fingers where he needs them, but all Bob does is move with him, following so perfectly that it has to be deliberate, and Bob’s a teasing bastard, and Frank hates him too.

“I hate you,” Frank says, his eyes fluttering closed as Bob _finally_ moves in the right direction.

“I know,” Bob says easily, and he slips his finger into Frank’s ass, the most minute of amounts and all too painfully slow. Frank’s struggles up onto his elbows, needing to see and needing to _move_ to do anything except lie still and be tortured.

“I swear to god, I’lll....” Frank gasps, the end of his threat lost as Bob pushes his finger further inside.

“You’ll kill me?” Bob suggests, and from one beat to the next he changes his rhythm, pushing in hard and fast. Which is better, much better, but it’s still not enough.

“Stone fucking dead,” Frank grits out, and adds, “Stop teasing.”

Bob pulls back his hand and for a moment Frank thinks that he’s stopping completely, which fucking _sucks_ and Frank’s mouth is open to protest when he hears the snick of the lube lid once more. Seconds later and Bob’s swapped one finger for two, and Frank’s flat on his back, staring up at the stains on the ceiling as he braces his feet against the mattress, meeting each thrust of Bob’s fingers with one of his own.

It drives Bob’s fingers deeper, and while it’s not perfect -- still not enough -- the possibility is there, nerves tingling and Frank’s legs are shaking as he looks to the side, putting visuals to sound.

Ray’s intent expression as he kneels, his pants crumpled around his hips and lazily palming his dick.

Then the other side, Gerard watching as if taking notes, and Frank can only imagine the scene through Gerard’s eyes, lines and colors, the flex of Bob’s arm, his hair falling forward, strands bright against the tan of his neck.

“You look fucking amazing,” Mikey says then, like he’s tapping into both Gerard and Frank’s thoughts.

“He’ll look better when I do this,” Bob says, his cheeks flushed as he straightens. His fingers still slick, he wraps them around his own cock, jacking himself once, twice, and then he’s shifting above Frank, arms either side of his body and holding himself up.

“You ready?” Bob asks, and as eager as Frank is, how frustrated and needy, he’s glad that Bob asked.

“Yeah,” Frank says, and Bob’s looming above him, his body covering Frank’s, but he’s looking at Frank like before, Bob’s gaze tender as he lines up his hips and takes a moment to brush a kiss against Frank’s mouth before pulling away.

Bob eases his hips forward, pushing inside, and Frank’s gasp is involuntary, his mouth open and toes curled as he takes Bob in and then stills, Bob a heavy weight, pushing Frank down.  
Which is good, is fucking awesome even, and Frank reaches out blindly, knowing the others will know what he needs.

“Frankie,” Ray says, his voice rough, and he’s knee-walking forward. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Both of you.”

“You are,” Gerard agrees, and he’s separating away from Mikey, which Frank doesn’t understand. Until he does, when Gerard moves to Frank’s other side, and suddenly Frank’s surrounded on all sides.

And they haven’t ever done this before, not with five, but they’re making it work, and Frank’s meeting Bob’s every thrust while looking down along his own body, suspecting what Gerard and Mikey will do.

Frank’s right, and he doesn’t even try to hold back his moan as together, Gerard and Mikey lean in, and in perfect sync, slowly lick Frank’s dick from bottom to top. It ends with a kiss, wet and dirty, the head of Frank’s dick trapped between their mouths, and they’re working their tongues together, against the slit of Frank’s dick until all he can do is shudder, his mouth open and gasping for breath.

Which is when Ray moves in for his own kiss, the final part of a joint assault that tips Frank over the edge. Hard and fast and fucking perfect.

~*~*~*~

Bob wakes the next day and knows he’s got no choice; he has to admit his past.

Easing out of the tangle of blankets and bodies, he stands, wincing a little as he finds his clothes, and quickly gets dressed. His socks lost in the shadows, Bob shoves his bare feet into his boots and ties the laces, tight and double-bowed.

Keeping his footsteps soft he wanders the diner, from the table to the counters, hand trailing over scattered parts and piles of magazines. Mikey’s bandana that’s been left draped over the boom box.

Bob’s stomach rumbles but he feels sick at the thought of eating, even water feeling like dust in his mouth. All he can do is stand at the window, watching the sun rise as he tries to justify to himself that it’s okay to keep this secret. But it’s not. Bob knows that it’s not.

“Bob?” Ray appears in the doorway to the bedroom, a blanket wrapped around his waist and his hair a tangle of sweat-damp curls. “Are you okay?”

It’s the moment when Bob can hide in a lie, when he can say that’s everything is fine. He keeps looking outside, where his Jeep’s parked up next to the Trans Am, Ray’s bike a little off to the side. Heart already aching, Bob says, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Do you want me to wake up the others?” Ray asks, and he’s reflected in the grimy glass, looking concerned as he takes hesitant steps forward.

“No.” Which is taking the cowardly way out, Bob knows that, but telling Ray’s going to be hard enough. Bob can’t see the disappointment in Gerard’s eyes, Frank’s suspicions return and Mikey’s realization that the person who saved him was just as bad as the person who caused him to be hurt in the first place.

“Bob?” Ray’s clutching the blanket, radiating concern and Bob should never have allowed it to get to this point.

Bob turns, because even if he is a coward he has to say this face to face. “Before. Before I got my workshop and found Patrick. I was part of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W. A high up part.”

“I....”

“I should have told you before. I’m sorry,” Bob says, cutting Ray off.

Then Bob runs, the door creaking as he hauls it back and almost throws himself outside. Blood pounding in his ears and his heart breaking. His only focus on getting away before he’s told to leave.

~~~~~~~

Patrick’s eyes are ringed with dark shadows, his gait stiff from sitting for hours on his computer That doesn’t stop him yelling, and he paces around the workshop. “You’re an idiot. A fucking pig-headed, stupid, moronic idiot.”

Bob doesn’t reply. The insults a variations on the theme that Patrick’s been railing about for almost ten minutes. At this point they’re mostly background noise, and Bob focuses his attention on Mikey’s bike that’s almost completed.

The body work gleaming and engine perfect, all it needs are the transfers applying, the ones that Gerard designed and Bob’s been making. Bob holds them in his hands, thumb against the eye of a stylized Cobra, Mikey’s real name initials interwoven and almost completely hidden in the flames that surrounds it.

Bob’s intention was always to hand it over as a surprise, and he still intends to do that. But now it’ll be a goodbye gift, and one Bob suspects Mikey won’t actually keep.

Patrick walks closer, stands so that Bob’s got no option but to see him. “I don’t understand. Tell me again.”

“I had to,” Bob says, and he’s told Patrick his reasons. Over and over. But Patrick doesn’t get it, and Bob recites them again. “They trust me. They let me into their lives, the very person they’re fighting against.”

“And that’s fucking bullshit,” Patrick spits back, and he tears his goggles from his head, as if he’s debating throwing them at Bob. “So you used to be in S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, so fucking what? You’re not now. You haven’t been for a long time.”

The transfers crinkle in Bob’s hands, and he sets them aside before he destroys what he’s so painstakingly created. “I ordered zone runners to be executed, I did it myself. People who could have been friends of the Killjoys.”

“And you’ve killed Dracs since then, and been instrumental in taking out whole units,” Patrick says, his immediate anger burning down to a simmering frustration. “And if you’re going with the whole evil ex S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W beyond redemption excuse why are you friends with Lindsey? Or Pete and Ashlee? Or me?”

“You’re not zone runners,” Bob says simply. “I haven’t stood and ordered your death.”

“And you didn’t order theirs either,” Patrick says, his anger abruptly draining. He puts back his goggles, fitting them to the line on his forehead, and when he looks at Bob it’s with nothing but sadness. “You know, you saved me. You saved Kobra Kid. I think it’s time you saved yourself.”

It’s Bob who looks away first, and he runs his hand over the transfer, trying to flatten it out as he says, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. You always are,” Patrick says, and walks away before Bob can protest.

Not that he would. He can’t, because he’s got nothing left to say.

~*~*~*~

If there’s one thing Mikey’s sure of, it’s that Bob isn’t the enemy, and that he’s someone that belongs with their group. The problem is, even if Mikey is sure, the others aren't.

It would be easy to convince them, but if he does that Bob’s acceptance would be built on Mikey’s say-so alone. That's something Mikey can't risk without threatening the trust of the group. A trust that is usually unquestionable and total but right now feels vulnerable, with Frank so angry and Gerard and Ray trying to make sense of something no one saw coming.

It’s all kinds of frustrating, and Mikey brings up his legs, chin resting on his bent knees as he stares past the Trans Am, towards the bleak open space of the desert. Absently he runs his thumb over a scar on his shin, tracing the raised line.

“Mikey.”

There’s the sound of a door closing, footsteps on the dirt, Gerard’s shadow stretching before him as he sits at Mikey’s side.

“I miss him,” Mikey says, and it’s not meant as any kind of persuasion, just a simple truth.

Gerard mimics Mikey’s pose, says simply, “He should have told us.”

“I know,” Mikey says, and he does. Bob _should_ have said, that way Mikey could have told him that the past doesn’t matter. But Bob didn’t give them that chance, and Mikey’s angry. Not in the same way as Frank, more that something so good has been taken away.

“A former S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W,” Gerard says, and laughs without humor. “God, this place is fucked up.”

Mikey traces the scar once again, upwards this time, ending with his hand close to his face. “It could have been worse.”

Gerard sighs. “If you say one word about Korse…”

“You know he wants you.” His mouth twitching, Mikey turns his head, so he can look directly at Gerard. “The UST is off the scale.”

“Fuck off,” Gerard says easily. “And who the fuck even says UST?”

Mikey smiles, enjoying the moment. “Me.”

There’s no snappy come-back, instead Gerard remains silent, looking at Mikey. Then says, “Frank will calm down soon. When he does we’ll get Bob and talk this shit out.”

“You still want him?” Mikey asks, his hope strengthening.

“ _We_ want him,” Gerard says, and the wind catches his hair, blowing it back and exposing the fresh dye marks that mottle his neck. “He’s not one of us but he’s close. If he runs we’ll keep chasing.”

And Mikey knows then that they’ll catch Bob. It’s just a case of when.

~*~*~*~

It feels like Frank’s been sleeping for mere minutes as he jumps to his feet, his neck aching and heart pounding as the radio blasts to life close to his head. He’s spent most of the day in this same place and position, taking notes and deciphering the verbal codes from Dr Death Defying’s broadcasts, each one more troubling than then one before.

Drac attacks increasing to previously unheard of levels, zone runners killed in their beds and everywhere a feeling of danger.

It’s why Frank’s glad MotorBaby’s safe in hiding, that Lindsey’s so close to breaking camp and hiding the kids.

Except, after a day that started badly already, things have gotten worse. Suddenly and horrifically worse. Frank thought they had time, but the playing of this song shows that they haven’t, and momentarily he’s frozen in the face of what needs to be done.

Gerard, Mikey and Ray appear, their clothes rumpled and hair mussed as a result of sleep snatched after a day spent gathering info and replacing supplies. They’re also not speaking, united in horrified silence as the song comes to an end, replaced by the voice of Dr Death Defying himself.

“That one’s for you motor babies, _The Misfits_ with Lost In Space, something special for this dark night. So watch out for those mutant suicide squads and look under your beds. Danger Will Robinson. Warning Warning. This is Dr Death Defying saying goodnight, good luck and keep running.”

It’s the signal Frank’s been dreading, the one that no one ever wanted to hear, no matter how much they’ve prepared.

“Fuck,” Gerard says, as the radio falls silent, and in this moment he’s Gerard only, his head against Mikey’s shoulder, taking comfort any way that he can.

“We have to go,” Ray says, and he’s right, they do have to leave. But no one moves for the door, and the sequence of events that needs to be started. Instead, on an unspoken signal, they come together. Holding on in a hug, arms around each other as they take these last moments in the diner, saying goodbye to their home.

“If things go bad,” Frank says, knowing it has to be said.

“We’ll go on,” Mikey says, and while he’s finishing Frank’s statement, he’s looking at Gerard. “All of us.”

“Yeah.” Gerard turns to the side, presses his cheek against Mikey’s, and it’s only because Frank’s looking down that he sees their hands, and how their little fingers are hooked together. Then Gerard straightens, says, “It’s time.”

It’s the signal they need, and the hug breaks apart, time already ticking.

They’ve practiced this before, done dry runs when things started to get bad. It how Frank easily scoops up his bag that’s already packed full of essentials. Spare batteries, water, ray guns and dried food.

It’s all that Frank takes. It’s all he _can_ take, and he doesn’t look to the side as he runs for the door. That way he doesn’t have to see the art on the walls or the piles of loved magazines, the doll Ray made for MotorBaby out of wood and old fabric.

“Got everything?” Mikey asks, and he’s scooping bottles of pills into his own bag before looping it over his shoulder next to Gerard’s.

Frank nods, and together with Mikey, hurries outside, where Gerard’s rolling out cable, Ray on his knees as he primes the detonator that’ll connect to the pig bombs about to be placed in the diner.

It’s the only way. Frank knows that. His eyes still prickle as he throws his bag into the trunk of the Trans Am.

“It’s ready,” Ray says, and wordlessly Gerard gathers the pig bombs that they’ve kept hidden, making the final brutal connection.

He stands, shoulders slumped and back to the car as he stares at the diner, and then Gerard turns, and in front of Frank’s eyes he becomes Party Poison, saying, “I’ll do it,” as he takes Ray’s place.

It’s not what they planned, but it makes sense, and Ray picks up his helmet, touching Gerard’s shoulder briefly before heading for his bike. He climbs on, starting the engine, and Frank’s in the back of the Trans Am, Mikey in the passenger seat, his expression set and helmet held on his lap.

Gerard looks from the bike to the car, checking they’re ready. At Frank’s nod he presses the detonator and runs, throwing himself behind the wheel and slamming the door. Already Ray’s moving, squealing away in a cloud of dark dust, and Gerard drives, moments behind.

Frank never looks back, but he can’t help mentally counting. Steeling himself for thirty painful seconds, when the world turns from grey to red and flames billow behind them.

~*~*~*~

There’s the smell of smoke in the air, enough that Bob’s put on edge, and he stands at doors of his workshop, looking toward the horizon. Despite the early hour, already the sky looks heavy, the clouds darkening even as Bob watches.

He wants to say it’s some kind of weather front rolling in, but Bob knows that it’s not. There’s something wrong, he can feel it. He _knows_ it when Patrick comes running, says breathlessly, “It’s a trap.”

“What is?” Despite Patrick’s obvious worry, Bob has to keep calm, and he waits as Patrick takes a moment to just breathe.

“I was just talking to Pete,” Patrick says, and immediately Bob’s calm is threatened, because Ashlee’s always their contact, it’s _never_ Pete, his position far too dangerous to attempt any contact from inside. “They’re staging a raid on the family camp. A huge one, to draw out the Killjoys.”

“I have to go there,” Bob says, and he’s already turning, about to go to his Jeep. But Patrick reaches out, grabbing Bob’s arm.

“That’s not all. They know about us. You. Me. Everything.”

It’s worse than Bob expected. Everything he knows is crashing down around him, but he can’t worry about himself. Not now. “Tell me Ashlee’s okay. And Pete.”

Patrick’s not wearing his hat or his goggles, and he looks stripped back, exposed as he runs his hands through his hair, says, “Their cover’s holding up for now. They were already getting ready to run.”

And Bob knows Patrick’s going to meet them.

On the back wall of the workshop there’s a line of nails, and on each one there’s hanging a key. Bob runs for those nails and snatches a key, handing it to Patrick. “It’s for the Firebird. You’ll need something fast.”

“You can come with us,” Patrick says, and his hand is curled around the key, holding it tight. “They’d want you to, me too. We can go somewhere safe and start over.”

Briefly Bob considers the offer. He likes Pete and Ashlee and Patrick’s a close friend, someone Bob’s come to love, and starting over is tempting. But Bob’s every instinct is screaming to get to the camp. He shakes his head, says simply, “I can’t.”

Patrick doesn’t seem surprised, just steps forward and pulls Bob into a sudden, bone crushing hug. “They better be worth it.”

“They are,” Bob says, and despite knowing things have gone wrong, he means it.

“Fucking Killjoys,” Patrick mutters, and tightens the hug. “Don’t get yourself killed.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Bob says, and can’t help a laugh at Patrick’s inelegant snort as he finally pulls back.

“Come on, I’ll give you a hand,” Patrick says, and he heads for Mikey’s bike, holding the handles as he kicks up the stand. “I know you’re not leaving it here.”

“It’s not mine to leave,” Bob says, and he watches as Patrick pushes the bike forward, its bodywork gleaming and metal shining, the Cobra with its fangs exposed and ready to strike.

It’s perfect, and ready to go back to its true owner. Bob just has to get it there first.

He starts the winch on his Jeep.

~*~*~*~

The family camp looks like it’s been thrust into hell. Tents and buildings burning and the perimeter walls torn down. In the middle of the chaos is Lindsey’s mini tank, gun firing and the purple paintwork standing out against the white-suited units of Dracs and S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W which march relentlessly forward, guns firing and bodies at their feet.

Mikey feels sick beyond his outward furious anger. All he wants is to get down there, but Gerard’s still talking, deadly calm as stands to the side of the Trans Am, watching the unfolding devastation.

“Ray, you and Frank go in the north side,” Gerard says. “I’ll take the south with Mikey.” It’s not an elaborate plan. It can’t be, at this point all they can do is force their way in and help in any way that they can. Gerard turns from the camp, back-lit red from the constant explosions. “Get the people out. That’s all that matters.”

Curtly, Mikey nods and gets back into the Trans Am. They’ve already said their goodbyes and now it’s the time for action, whatever the possible endings.

It’s Ray that leaves first, bike engine roaring and Frank hanging on behind him, his hair pushed back and his raygun aimed and ready.

They head to the left and Gerard drives right, increasing the speed as they bump over small rocks, the whole car shuddering as they pass what’s left of the gates. There’s a body hanging over the splintered wood of one gate, dark hair hanging down and concealing the face, but Mikey doesn’t turn to look, just grips his gun harder and readies himself to run as soon as Gerard pulls to a stop.

He’s aiming for Lindsey’s tank, and this close Mikey can see it’s protecting a van, where groups of kids are being hurried inside.

“They’re firing at fucking babies,” Gerard says, his voice icy cold and he brings the Trans Am into a tight spin so they’re facing a unit of approaching Dracs.

The tank fires and three of the Dracs explode, body parts flying. Three down out of the hundreds remaining and Mikey throws himself out of the Trans Am, taking cover as he starts firing.

Laser bolts zip through the air, colors cutting through clouds of dark smoke. One-handed Mikey pulls up his bandana, fabric over his mouth and nose, trying to cut back the overwhelming stench of explosives, blood and raw flesh.

“Cover me,” Gerard yells, and Mikey’s chest is lead, and it’s hurting to breathe as Gerard breaks his cover and runs for the other side of the tank.

Mikey keeps firing, screams, “No!” when one of the laser bolts clips Gerard’s shoulder and he briefly goes down before rolling past the treads of the tank. Momentarily, Gerard’s still, and then he’s commando crawling forward, taking out Dracs from his position on the ground.

Mikey fires. Again and again and again. The Dracs keep coming, more than he’s ever seen and all he can hope is that behind him, the kids are safe.

“Mikey.”

Mikey looks to the side, relief hitting as he sees Jamia. There’s a blood-stained scarf wrapped around her upper arm and her hair is tied back in a loose knot. She fires her own gun, taking down a Drac with a head shot and stands next to Mikey, so close that they’re touching.

“The van’s full,” Jamia says, and keeps picking off Dracs. “I can’t get any more in, there’s no room. I tried.”

“We’ll get them.” Mikey doesn’t think twice about making the promise, and in unison with Jamia he fires, red and silver laser bolts taking down one of the remaining Dracs in this unit.

Jamia fires again, the recoil causing a lock of hair to fall free. She tucks it behind her ear, says blankly, “They broke into the living quarters. When people were still sleeping.”

“They’ll pay,” Mikey vows. It’s all that he can say, knowing there’s no words or platitudes that can even start making things better. He drops his arm when Gerard takes down the last Drac, the next wave a short distance away.

The hatch of the tank opens, and when Lindsey appears she wipes the back of her hand under her eyes, taking away the smeared mascara and liner. Then holds the lip of the hatch as she looks toward Jamia, her red painted fingernails bright against the purple of the tank. “You’re loaded and ready to go?”

“I can’t get them all in, the van won’t make it.” For a moment Jamia’s face crumbles, but she regains control within seconds. “I’ll see you at the meeting place.”

“You know it,” Lindsey says, and smiles, adds, “Be careful, beautiful.”

“Promise,” Jamia says, and turns to Mikey, her voice raised so Gerard can hear over the sound of laser fire and shouts coming from the rear of the camp. “I’m taking the van out of the front gates. I won’t be stopping. For anything.”

“Keep it brutal,” Mikey says, and brings up his clenched fist, bumping it against Jamia’s. Then watches as she turns and runs back to the van.

Assessing the danger, Mikey makes a quick decision, and runs to Gerard, zig-zagging to avoid the shots from yet another S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W unit. These ones aren’t Dracs, but the blank masks amp up their menace, and Mikey fires behind him, aim for the approaching drones.

“Jamia can’t take all the kids,” Mikey says. “We need to get them and go.”

Gerard nods, and then starts firing, staring at the approaching units. “There’s too many of them. They’re sending too much fire power for one raid on a family camp.”

“They could be making a statement,” Mikey says, but while he’s sure that’s part of the issue, he suspects more, and Lindsey apparently does too.

She leans down, body folded so she can talk and be heard. “You need to go, all of you. This isn’t right.”

“Not until everyone’s out,” Gerard says, and then, “Is everyone together?”

“We got most of them into the main tent,” Lindsey says, and her knuckles are white as she adds. “Alicia went to the nursery, I don’t know if she’s back.”

“I’ll go there and find out,” Gerard says and he’s standing tall, defiant against the wave of approaching Dracs.

“ _I’ll_ find out,” Mikey corrects, and at Gerard’s look says, “I don’t stand out as much.”

“Like hell you don’t,” Gerard says, pointedly looking at Mikey’s red jacket, but this is something that Mikey’s determined to do. Both to help with the babies if needed, and also to leave Gerard close to the Trans Am and a way to get to safety.

Another explosion rocks through the camp, flames shooting up in the sky and briefly, between the tattered remains of two tents, Mikey sees Ray on his bike, steering one handed while firing his gun with the other.

“Get them out,” Mikey says, and before Gerard can speak, Mikey’s running. Past where Jamia’s pulling the doors closed at the back of the van, protecting the people crammed inside, and then forward, by-passing a smoking Drac body, toward the tents where the youngest children used to play.

Before the huge tent was painted, fish and sea creatures looking over newly created and scavenged toys. Now it’s half way collapsed, the turquoise canvas charred and holed. At the entrance there’s two Dracs, kicking a headless plushie between them while laughing.

Mikey ghosts them both.

Jumping over their bodies he drops to his knees and crawls into the collapsed tent. It’s dark inside, filled with lingering smoke, but he can see a barrier of small beds and cribs that have been pushed on their side. And behind them, Alicia, her gun aimed directly at Mikey.

He says, “Alicia, it’s me.”

“I could have shot you,” Alicia says, and lowers the gun. “Are they still out there?”

Mikey shakes his head. “I took them out.”

“Good.” Alicia stands and starts hauling at a bed, pulling until there’s a small gap. “I was about to go ghost them myself if they didn’t come in.”

“Who else is here?” Mikey asks, all too aware of the time and the fact that outside there’s been no cease-fire in shooting. He looks past Alicia, and the first thing he sees is a body of a man, someone Mikey knows vaguely by sight but not name.

“They got him in the back,” Alicia says, and she crouches, closing the man’s eyes. “In the fucking back, Mikey.”

“They’re cowards,” Mikey says, and it’s something he’s known for a long time. “Fucking bullies who can only hunt in packs.” But they’re also dangerous cowards, and Mikey eases through the gap, following Alicia to the very back of the tent.

There’s a large doll’s house back there, painted bright colors and looking like the houses Mikey remembers from back in his childhood. Alicia pulls the house to one side, and reveals a small group of toddlers, and a baby lying on the floor.

“They always get up first,” Alicia says, and she crouches down and forces a smiles. “Daniel loved early duty. I think he just liked eating the protein mush.”

A little boy steps hesitantly forward, his eyes huge and watery. “Dan gone breakfast?”

There’s a pause, as if Alicia’s deciding what to say, then, “We have to go, honey. Remember what I said about staying quiet? Alicia brings her finger to her lips for a moment, and then takes hold of the boy’s hand, gently urging him out. “Go hold Mikey’s hand. I need to carry Sarah.”

Outside there’s another, louder explosion. Mikey steps forward and scoops up the boy, then takes the girl Alicia hands over, keeping both toddlers tucked against his body. It means he’s unable to draw his gun, but right now Mikey’s got no choice, especially when Alicia’s holding the baby in one arm and clutching the hand of another.

“Gerard’s close by, he’ll get us out,” Mikey says, and hurries the best as he can. Squeezing past the beds and cribs, he tries to keep his body angled away from Daniel, and then kneels when he reaches the collapsed front of the tent.

Through the canvas he can see bursts of light, and he puts down the toddlers when Alicia comes close. As soon as he’s sure she’s got them, the boy and girl clutching onto her legs, Mikey crawls outside, and throws himself flat as soon as he does.

In the short time he’s been inside more Drac units have arrived. They’re marching close, guns raised, a terrifying army in white. Mikey knows that they’ll be found within minutes, and that there’s not a chance they’ll get back to Gerard unscathed.

He turns at a sound behind him, sees that Alicia is holding up the canvas, looking outside. Toneless, she says, “We’ll never make it.”

“I know,” Mikey says, and the Dracs keep marching forward.

Alicia looks behind her, and says something Mikey can’t hear. Then she’s crawling forward, until she’s lying at Mikey’s side. She turns her head, her cheek against the blood-splattered dirt, says, “If I go down I go down fighting.”

“To the end,” Mikey agrees, and this isn’t something he’s ever imagined. Always expecting to go down with Gerard, Frank or Ray, or at his worse moments, alone, but he couldn’t have picked anyone better than Alicia.

They get to their feet and start firing.

~*~*~*~

Having Mikey’s bike on the back has slowed Bob down. By the time he reaches the camp it’s in chaos, and he has to pull the wheel sharply to the side as a van hurtles through the destroyed gates, flames burning from the back pipes.

Realising it’s the one he tricked out himself, Bob’s relieved, hoping it means people are getting out. But not all of them, something he realizes when he drives through the gates and sees the armies of Dracs and S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W units that are converging on Lindsey’s mini tank, and the Killjoys Trans Am, Gerard running toward it.

They’re both firing, the tank and Gerard, but they’re painfully outnumbered, and Bob drives forward, firing his own gun from the side of his Jeep. With his help the nearest unit is ghosted, and Bob’s willing Gerard forward as he keeps running -- and then he goes down, landing hard next to the Trans Am.

Bob yells, and screeches to a stop. Jumps out of his Jeep and keeps firing at the approaching Dracs as he runs and drops to his knees next to Gerard.

“Gerard?” Bob says, and can barely hear his own voice over the sound of explosions and lasers. He reaches out, barely breathing as touches Gerard’s neck, desperate to feel some sign of a pulse.

At first there’s nothing, and Bob’s hands are shaking as he tries again, pressing harder when Gerard opens his eyes and says, “Bob?”

“Thank fuck,” Bob says, relief hitting hard. At the sound of an engine, he looks up and sees Ray drive through the Dracs, Frank sitting backwards behind him, gripping on with his legs and firing guns with both hands.

Which leaves Mikey, and once again fear hits as Bob helps Gerard to sit up. Dreading the answer, he asks, “Where’s Mikey?”

“He went to the nursery.” White-faced and hand held to his side, Gerard struggles to his feet. “I’m going to get him.”

“No you’re not,” Bob says, and doesn’t back down from the glare Gerard sends his way.

“He’s my brother.”

“And he’s my friend,” Bob counters, returning the glare. “Plus, you’re injured.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gerard says, his chin tilted up as he stares directly at the regrouping Dracs. He fires, and groans immediately after, staggering back so he’s propped against the Trans Am. Gerard looks at Bob. “Bring him back.”

“I intend to,” Bob says, and a last look at Gerard jumps into his Jeep.

It seems to take forever to get to the nursery, the Drac units and mess of smashed tents and buildings meaning Bob has to drive half way around the perimeter. He’s second-guessing himself about not going on foot when he finally sees the remains of the nursery tent, and Alicia and Mikey standing at the ruins of what was the entrance.

Side by side they’re firing in unison, but it’s only a matter of time before they go down. No matter how fast they fire, how accurate, they’re still vastly outnumbered, and Bob knows he’s got seconds to act.

Foot down, he accelerates over the bodies of two Dracs and pulls to a stop to the right of the tent. Yells, “Get in!”

“I’ll get the kids,” Alicia says, and fires a last shot before throwing herself down and crawling into the tent. Almost instantly small children start to appear, pale and silent as Mikey scoops up each one before passing them to Bob.

When he’s got three tiny children on the back seat of his Jeep, Alicia crawls back out, a baby held in one arm. She hands her to Bob, and turns to Mikey who’s making no attempt to climb in, and states flatly, “You’re going for Gerard.”

Which of course Mikey’s going for Gerard, Bob’s always known it. It’s why he carefully places the baby in the middle of the driving seat and runs to start up the winch. All the time while fighting against his every instinct, which is to yell, to tell Mikey that he’s crazy and that he needs to get in the Jeep and leave. Now.

Bob doesn’t. He knows when he’s fighting a losing battle and getting Mikey to leave is never going to happen.

“Is that the bike I stole?” Mikey asks, and this isn’t how Bob ever wanted to hand over this gift. But he’s got no choice, and he unfastens the chains, and pushes the bike over to Mikey.

“If you wreck it again I’lll fucking end you,” Bob says gruffly.

“You’d patch me up again,” Mikey says, sounding sure, and briefly his hands brush against Bob’s as he takes back the bike. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Bob says, and allows himself a moment to watch Mikey get onto the bike and start up the engine.

Which is Bob’s signal, and without another word, he gets back in his Jeep, ignoring Alicia’s sympathetic look as she sits with the baby cradled in one hand, her raygun in the other. Both watching as Mikey roars back to Gerard.

~*~*~*~

Bob travels with the occupants of the family camp for close to two days.

Packed into a series of laser-scarred cars and vans, they head for their new location, battered, bruised and sick at heart, but determined to carry on.

Each day the convoy gets a little big longer. Zone runners fleeing for safety, friends of the camp bringing supplies. And each day Bob looks for the Killjoys, needing to know that they’re safe.

Despite Lindsey repeating that she saw them escape, Mikey getting back to Gerard and the Trans Am, Ray and Frank close behind, fleeing as the camp burned behind them, Bob has to see for himself. But days pass and they don’t come, and Bob’s beginning to lose hope.

It’s on the morning of day three when Bob decides to split off. He likes the people in the camp, and he’s become used to having various children in the back of his Jeep. Laughing and chattering, and sometimes crying, as they try to understand a world that leaves even the adults confused.

But Bob can’t stay. He’s reinvented himself once, gained true friendships twice, and each time it’s ended in failure. It’s why Bob’s leaving now, intent on finding some isolated location, just him and his engines and a solitary life.

“Are you sure? Lindsey asks again. She’s leaning against the side of her tank, the only person there to see Bob run away. At least that’s how she describes it, no matter how often Bob tries to explain.

“Positive,” Bob says, as he’s climbing into his Jeep.

“You’re a stubborn bastard,” Lindsey says, and she pushes herself up and approaches Bob, pulls herself up on her tip-toes and presses a kiss against his cheek. “And too serious by half. Put the radio on at least, listen to some music and lighten up.”

Bob flicks on the radio, and the early morning silence is replaced by the hiss of white noise, which is exactly what Bob knew would happen. “I feel more cheerful already.”

Lindsey’s mouth twists to the side and she frowns even as she gathers Bob into a hug, hanging on to his neck. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, Lindsey’s feet must be off the ground and Bob’s side is jammed against the metal door. But he doesn’t move, drinking in the contact as Lindsey says, “Just keep listening. Promise me.”

~*~*~*~

Bob does promise, and he does keep listening, the soft hiss blending into the sound of his tires and his breathing, the only noise on this desolate stretch of road.

It’s been hours since he left the camp convoy, and Bob’s eyes are gritty, his skin tight and his mouth dry. About to reach for his water bottle, he jumps, the bottle falling into the foot-well when a song starts to play.

Bob slows, stops and listens, barely able to hope as the song comes to an end, replaced by Dr Death Defying’s voice.

“And that one’s a special request, petrol heads, going out to our lost sheep. _The Smashing Pumpkins_ and _Tonight, Tonight_. If you’re listening lost sheep, it comes with a message. You’re being tracked on the grid and it’s time to stop running. Which is something this crash king doesn’t say often, but today’s a day for burning hearts and new beginnings. Bah bah pink sheep it’s time to share your wool. And with that, Dr Death Defying is out.”

A few seconds and the song begins again, and Bob’s gripping the steering wheel, knowing that whatever he promised Lindsey he should turn off the radio and keep driving. Especially as there’s no guarantee that the song’s actually meant for him.

Except it is. Bob’s sure of that, and the truth is, he needs this glimmer of hope.

Bob turns off the engine and sits back to wait.

~~~~~

It’s an hour later when he hears the three engines, and Bob turns in his seat, watching the clouds of dust that signifies that someone is coming.

Seconds later and the dust is pierced by glimmers of light, more and a car is revealed, one flanked by two bikes. Bob gets out of his Jeep, stands at the side of the road and keeps watching.

The car and bikes get closer. The Trans Am with Mikey riding his bike on one side, Ray on the other. Bob presses his hands against his thighs and breaths through the heaviness in his chest. He needs to see them all, to make sure they’re safe, even if all the do is drive away straight after.

The vehicles come to a stop. The sudden silence ringing, and then Frank’s throwing himself out of the Trans Am, his expression fierce, his hand clenched in a fist, and Bob steels himself for the expected punch.

It never comes. Instead Frank jumps and grabs hold of Bob, hugging him tight, clinging on as the others join in. Gerard, Ray then Mikey. They surround Bob, each of them filthy and haggard.

“I should punch you in the fucking face,” Frank says, his voice rough. “You ran away. You don’t get to do that.”

It’s not what Bob expected, and when the hug breaks up, he looks around them all, trying to understand. “I had to run. I was part of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W.”

“So?” Mikey says, looking unimpressed. “So’s Pete.”

The statement doesn’t help. In fact, Bob’s more confused than before. “You know what Pete does?”

“We have all along,” Ray says.

“We know too much about fucking Pete,” Frank adds, while all Gerard does is stand and look pained. “But the most important thing is that he’s fighting for our side. Like you.”

Bob takes a step back, needing the support of his Jeep, because it can’t be that simple. “I ordered people killed. Zone runners killed.”

“And we keep ghosting Dracs who used to be people,” Gerard says, his hand pressed against the marks on his neck. “The world isn’t black and white, it’s grey. Except when it’s colors.”

Frank grins, wide and bright. “Like pink.”

“Barbie pink,” Mikey says, but unlike Frank he’s not grinning. “We need that color for our rainbow.”

“You’ve been listening to Gerard for too long,” Bob says, but hopes he’s understanding what Mikey actually means. “You want me to stay?”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “That’s what I said.”

“He did,” Gerard says with a nod. “We all want you to stay.”

“For good,” Ray adds.

“I was going to set up a new workshop,” Bob says, and remembers his life before Patrick. Long days and nights, and a solitude Bob learned to endure. “I’ve never lived with four people.”

“Seven,” Gerard says, and looks around all of the others. “We’ve been setting up the new base with Dr D, they’ll be living there too.”

Bob imagines living with seven people, four he’s sleeping with and three he’s never met. It’s intimidating and frightening and yet another big change in Bob’s life.

“I thought I’d lost you all,” Bob says, and he’s staring down at the ground. “Twice.” he looks up then, at men that months ago were names and faces on a page, and now are some of the most important people in Bob’s life. “We’d be staying in the zones?”

Gerard nods. “We’re starting over. The fuckers aren’t keeping us down.”

It’s an attitude Bob loves, and one that he shares. There’s no doubt about his decision. “I’m staying.”

“Good,” Gerard says, his smile wide. “You’re part of us.”

“Have been for a while,” Ray says, and bumps Bob’s fist with his own.

Frank points at Bob, his grin fading. “But no more running without talking to us first.”

“I won’t,” Bob starts to say, but Mikey cuts in.

“I know you won’t, because if you do I’ll kill you.”

It’s what Bob expected, and all he can do is laugh.


End file.
